


Savage Garden

by SpartanGuard



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Dark One Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Deckhand Captain Hook | Killian Jones, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-11-27 06:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18190769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpartanGuard/pseuds/SpartanGuard
Summary: Killian Jones was, by far, the worst, weakest, most ineffectual Dark One ever. (According to the Darkness, at least.) And he was fine with that. He was just a slave, a deckhand—what use did he have of dark magic? And even less want. But the Darkness has vowed to firmly get him under its grasp, one of these days. He finds respite in a beautiful secluded garden—and the amazing woman he eventually meets there. The question remains, though: is it—is she—enough to keep him out of the dark completely? One can only hope...





	1. Until The Sky Falls Down On Me

**Author's Note:**

> I totally thought this was going to be a one-shot; so much for that. This stemmed from a conversation at least two years ago with TheSSChestHair and fergus80. I picked at it for a couple years, then signed up for CS March Madness to force myself to finish it—and now it's sprawling, so we'll see how long it goes!  
> Also, I'm not as huge a Savage Garden fan as the title/chapter titles might imply but I absolutely suck at creative titles so this is just where we ended up. Hope you like 90s pop!

Killian Jones was, by far, the worst, weakest, most ineffectual Dark One ever. 

(According to the Darkness, at least.)

And he was fine with that. 

While he was by no means the first to take on the curse unwittingly, he was certainly the only one to outright reject the power—hate it, even. But the feeling was mutual.

That hadn’t stopped the Darkness from wrapping itself around his bones, though; seeping into every pore and taking up residence in the dark corners of his mind. But the one thing Killian had managed to do was keep it away from his heart—his soul—even though it was a daily battle against the dark voices tempting him down that terrifying path.

More than once, he had thought of finding a way out; but he was far too much a coward to actually do anything about it. The darkness taunted him about that, too.

_ Where’s the man who murdered in revenge? Who was so angry at blood shed that he shed more on his own? _

“That was a one-time thing,” he’d mutter back.

_ But didn’t it feel amazing? To hold the power of life and death in your hands? _

“No.”

_ Imagine what you could do; especially with that hook! Oh, the fun we could have, the torture we could execute—the screams you could draw! _

There was a reason he hadn’t worn that prosthetic much since this whole thing started, as utilitarian as it was.

_ Come on, Jones; just a bit of murder! _

“I said no!” he shouted, drawing the attention of far too many people around him in the market. Most had been politely avoiding his gaze, but now they couldn’t help but stare, and Killian wanted nothing more than to become invisible.

_ You can, you know. _

He ignored the suggestion, instead opting to pop the collar on his leather trenchcoat and make haste in exiting the village, abandoning his planned shopping trip after the outburst. But now, of course, all eyes were on him, and he couldn’t say he was surprised.

He knew what he looked like—that he was considered to be exceptionally handsome. The darkness certainly thought he was. Throughout his life, his pretty face had done nothing but garner the wrong kind of attention, from men and women alike, but now it drew even more in, with its sharp cheekbones, piercing blue eyes, and the silvery-cyan sheen that sparkled in the sun—the only physical manifestation of his curse. 

The wide open shirts he wore weren't by choice—in his previous life, he lost the buttons to his tunics, clumsy fool he was, and couldn't easily repair them one-handed; the darkness liked it, though, and showed off his chest like he was some harlot or ponce. The leather slacks that were customary for sailors like he had been were perfect for showing off his “ _ assets _ ,” apparently, and clung to his skin in a manner that was nearly obscene.

So he’d taken to wearing the long jacket to hide himself and what he was. The darkness thought it was imposing, and it was the lone thing it was proud of him for; but really, the coat was his armor against the world. Though it didn’t seem to be working now, as it billowed around him in his hustle to get out of town. 

He reached the end of the high street and turned down an alley to cut to the road that ran along the shore. He’d barely rounded the corner when a small voice cried out in pain, followed by a deep chuckle.

Though the alley was in shadows, it was easy for him to see the prone form of a boy, no more than ten years old, sprawled on the cobblestones with a large, sneering man standing over him. The lad’s dirty face and clothes, dark mess of hair, and wide, terrified eyes were like looking in a reflecting glass to the past. How many times had he been in that position as a child? How often had one cruel captain or another blamed him for a wrong or punished him for clumsiness?

_ Now’s your chance to enact revenge _ , the Darkness whispered.  _ All that pain, all that suffering—you can take it all out on this piece of scum _ .

He wouldn’t take the bait, if only because the way the man was spewing insults at the boy—over what appeared to be something as inconsequential as a stolen crust of bread—brought back that feeling of helplessness he knew too often in his youth, and had never quite shaken as he’d grown into adulthood. The urge to run and hide in Liam’s arms prickled in his spine, but Liam was long gone, and there was certainly no one around to protect or comfort the Dark One.

He was brave once, right? Perhaps he could be again, for the sake of this boy. Especially as he watched the man place a scuffed boot on the boy’s shoulder as the lad attempted to stand, sending him back to the ground with a thud.

Swallowing, Killian spoke. “Surely there’s someone closer to your size to battle. You can’t claim much victory in defeating a child.” The Darkness had even managed to tint his voice, an edge seeping into it that he’d never thought himself capable of before.

The man finally drew his attention away from the boy, rising to his full height and turning to face Killian. For a brief moment, fear flashed in his beady eyes, but quickly disappeared when he realized who was there. Not all were intimidated by the Dark One, especially not anymore.

“Or what?” the man sneered. “I’ve heard all about you. The Cowardly Dark One. Can’t even kill a chicken for his dinner.”

_ Are you really just going to stand there and let him insult us?  _ the Darkness crowed.  _ May as well hand over the dagger and put you out of your misery _ . 

That thought honestly scared him more than any alternative—the thought of what this cruel man could do with such wicked powers was enough for Killian to straighten his spine and approach the man.

“Clearly, you know who I am. But you underestimate just what I’m capable of.” In a rare moment of indulgence, he called on the magic that had attached to him like a parasite and let it loose, shaking the ground around them, rattling the rafters of the surrounding buildings, and threatening to roll a parked cart their way. 

“Please.” The villain was unimpressed, and spat at the ground. “Your magic tricks are empty; you won’t do nothin’ to me. You ain’t no hero—all you are is a one-handed coward.”

_ A one-handed coward...sounds about right. _

It wasn’t the nasally, polyphonic voice of the darkness this time, though—no, it was his previous captors, Blackbeard and Silver, and all the other men who’d cruelly used him and abused him in the past. Killian’s normally cool head and blood suddenly ignited with anger and frustration that rarely boiled to the surface, so buried as they were under his typical timidity.

“That’s enough!” he roared, sounding even less like himself. “Leave him alone!”

Looking back on the scene, it was like he watching it from a grimy spyglass—the picture was muddled and distorted. He wasn’t quite sure who was in charge and who made the move—he hated moments like that, though he could never decide if it was because he’d let the darkness take over, or because he was disgusted at the thought that he’d been in full control.

Regardless, he didn’t waste a moment in thrusting his hand toward the vile man, sending a blast of magic that threw the brute off his feet and into the brick wall behind him with a sickening thud. 

One of the side effects of being the Dark One, Killian had discovered, was enhanced senses. So he heard the exact moment the man’s skull collided with the stone, how it shattered, and the snap of the bones in his neck. The coppery smell of blood filled his nostrils. And he watched with grotesque clarity as the corpse collapsed against the cobblestone, leaving a dark red trail on the wall as unseeing eyes stared back at him.

That was all it took for Killian to come back to his senses and regain control over the darkness. Bloody hell, what had he done?

_ Exactly what that man deserved and you know it. Don’t pretend you didn’t like it. _

“I didn’t,” he muttered under his breath, and turned to face the lad. But where he’d earlier seen himself as a boy reflected in his visage, he now only saw the way he looked at himself now: with horror and fear. Wide eyes gawked at him as the boy continued to shrink away from him, gaze flitting between the murder and the murderer. “Are you alr—” Killian started to ask, but the boy jumped at his voice.

“Please, sir, don’t kill me, too!”

“I won’t—”

“I’ll never steal again—promise!” he shouted, scrabbling away on his rear.

“No, no, I’m not going to—you’re not in trouble…” Killian tried to explain, but trailed off when the boy flung an arm over his eyes, cowering at the sight of what must be a demonic visage.

Though his heart served little purpose anymore and was surely black and rotting, he still felt it crack at the boy’s reaction, and his entire body sagged.

“I...I’m sorry,” he murmured, and with a wave of his hand, let the red smoke of his magic carry him away, leaving nought but a fresh loaf of bread in his place; hopefully, the boy would take it.

Killian reappeared a few miles out of town, on the empty, forgotten road that led to his equally secluded home. He spent many days wandering the tree-lined path that wound up the coast, watching the dappled light play on the leaves in the summer and counting each snowflake that fell on the tangled branches in winter. More than once, he intentionally got lost in the woods, just to delay returning to the silent walls of his home—and maybe to irritate the darkness.

_ Useless sailor! Aren’t you supposed to know how to navigate? _ it would taunt.  _ At least let us translocate home—just need to flick your wrist! _

But he never gave in, tempted as he was at times when he was hopelessly off the beaten path. Perhaps that was what he needed now, to quell the storm raging in his soul.

His body was still vibrating from what happened in town, adrenaline and magic flowing through his veins, battling for power. He could almost feel the violent clash between the two within him, as if every molecule was fighting the one next to it; it would have been enough to turn his stomach, were anything in it, but given that Dark Ones didn’t need sustenance to survive—and he’d gotten quite good at subsisting on very little while aboard the ship—he ignored the Darkness’s calls for decadence each day and went without. 

Maybe he’d find some wild berries, he thought, if only so their sweet flavor could let him focus on something else—or perhaps their poison would be a fitting punishment for what he’d just done. He nearly stumbled on a root almost immediately after stepping off the dirt road and into the thick trees, and slipped down the incline leading away from the lane, but he merely stood and brushed it off while ignoring the Darkness’s outrage over his clumsiness. 

Instead, he tried to listen to anything and everything else—the breeze through the trees, the song of the birds, even just the crunch of detritus under his boots. But it was like the creatures of the forest could sense his dark aura and fled, leaving him with just the sounds of his own footfalls and heaving breaths.

Still, as long as he focused on those, it kept the other voices at bay. Which was what made it so much more jarring when another noise filtered in: the sound of water falling, babbling like a brook.

It stopped him in his tracks at first; the trees were much too dense for any sort of body of water, even a small one. But, to one side, he could see through the thickets a stone wall; the water was sounding from that direction. 

He followed it, noting the moss and dark age spots on the bricks that made up the seemingly ancient wall. He’d no idea what could be hidden out here, in such a dense, practically unreachable part of the forest.

And yet, someone, at some point in time, had essentially constructed a fortress. Perhaps the trees weren’t so thick when it had been built, but this region had never been a hive of civilization. He strolled along the walls, still hearing the gurgle of water from within, and even the tweets of a few birds who were blissfully unaware of his presence.

On the far side of the structure, there was a rectangular gap where a door had likely once stood, now rotted away with time and the encroaching vines that covered this part of the edifice. With his hook, he slashed away at those covering the opening until he had a wide enough path to get through, and slipped in.

The light inside the walls was nearly blinding, with fewer trees to filter it; but once Killian’s eyes readjusted, the view before him stole his breath: it was a garden, clearly long abandoned, but no less stunning.

Roses of nearly every color grew in each corner and along the walls, nearly drowning the space in their light fragrance and giving it a hazy, warm glow. Flowering vines draped over the walls, their tendrils reaching across the stone walkways that followed the circumference of the garden. Beds of all sorts of flowers, most he had no idea how to define or describe, sat in blocks in the middle, with rusty iron benches scattered around. And the centerpiece was a stone fountain, its details long eroded away, but still happily bubbling.

It was so lovely, so full of innocence and light, that Killian felt like an intruder, tainted as he was. He daren’t touch a thing. But he couldn’t help but look.

Slowly, he meandered around the space, taking in every petal, every leaf, each blade of grass underfoot. It was an eden—an oasis from the shadows that clouded and dogged him day in and day out.

_ You really think escape is this easy? _ The Darkness ridiculed.  _ You’re dumber than we thought. _

He ignored it, though, too enamoured with the beauty all around him. He noticed the shadows changing as the sun moved across the sky, but he couldn’t find any desire within him to leave. Was it possible to make this his new residence? Be permanently surrounded by such ethereal elegance? It was clearly long-forgotten; surely, no one would notice…

But he knew there was no shortcut in his path; no easy way out of his fate. He’d have to leave eventually, like all sinners must. Still—perhaps he could take some of the essence of this place with him.

The rose bush in front of him was colored the lightest, softest pink; it reminded him of his mother’s cheeks when she’d laugh. The memory was muted but he could still see her clearly. Cautiously, he reached out and grazed his finger over the silken petal.

To his horror, as soon as he touched it, the entire bud turned to ash and crumbled away; the rest of the plant followed suit. He stepped back in horror and stared at his hand; he could see the blackness coursing through his veins, then disappearing back to wherever it came from.

All around him, darkness was claiming the vibrant place. “No, no, no!” he cried, falling to his knees as the flowers withered and died, the vines fell limp—even the fountain started to bubble a black ooze not unlike the one that had wrapped itself around him when he first took on this curse.

_ Don’t you see, dearie? _ The Darkness taunted.  _ Everything you touch is ruined. Your mother...your brother...your dear Milah…. _

“No, please no,” he begged, memories of their deaths flashing through his mind unbeckoned and breaking his heart all over again. 

_ Face it—you’re still a coward. But now, you’re too craven to even accept your fate. _

The world around him continued to darken and the shrill laughter of the Darkness’s many voices drilled into his brain.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He gave in. With a wave of his hand, he disappeared again, back to his lonely cabin on his desolate cliff, overlooking the sea. That was the only place for him, it seemed.

* * *

A year goes by. Five, ten, fifty more; the passage of time loses its meaning when the reflection in the mirror stays the same day after day. Killian retreated even more into himself, using solitude as a shield—though he’d often wonder if he was keeping the world safe from the Darkness, or himself from the temptations of the world.

Oh, he’d still venture into town from time to time; once or twice a year, perhaps. Enough to remind himself why he stays away; enough for the Darkness to have a respite from its usual taunts and complaints. Honestly, it’s like caring for a pet in some ways—a feral animal that followed him home and now won’t leave, and if he doesn’t give it a change of scenery, it’ll eat him alive.

The fact that Killian hadn’t gone completely mad was a miracle unto itself. If anything, the Darkness’s changing tactics when it came to verbal (mental?) abuse kept him on his toes. Other than the view of the sea and the massive library, it’s all that kept him sane.

The library had been a project—or, more likely, distraction—in itself. He had to assume it’d taken him nearly 10 years to compile, making the three-day trek between his home and the former Dark One’s gaudy castle repeatedly until he was sure he had enough reading material to last him decades. The tomes on magic were largely ignored, and on those, he left whatever enchanted locks the previous owner had installed in place. 

Anything else, whether it was fiction or nonfiction, as long as it held some interest, he arduously took back to his cottage once he had built an adequately sized room. Working with his hands like that kept the demons at bay, and the many long trips between the two dwellings gave plenty of opportunity to bask in the solitude of the forest and the call of the sea.

The trip took him up the coast and back down it, over a path that had become slightly worn down over the decade or so he was making his trips—little more than a gap in the shrubbery to the mortal eye, but enough for him to keep track of where he was going. It wasn’t the easiest route, to be certain—cutting straight through the wood held more even terrain—but this way, he was constantly on his toes and alert.

And the crash of the water on the rocks below was a better soundtrack than the empty trees, devoid of the birds that were still frightened of him.

After a few trips on foot, he attempted to make the journey by sea; he knew how to sail, of course, and the castle sat in a similar position as his home, overlooking open water. He’d spent weeks gathering wood, forming and carving the vessel, sewing the sails, and setting the rigging. He even went so far as to name it: the  _ Jewel of the Realm _ —the name of the ship his brother had captained some years after he left Killian behind, now long since lost to a violent storm, its captain with it. 

The day Killian set sail was one of the best in memory. He’d so missed the clap of a sail and the salt spray on his face; for the first time in perhaps fifty years, he felt truly free—not even the Darkness had anything to say.

But he knew it was too good to last, for he’d hardly traveled a single nautical mile before the waves grew tempestuous, crashing over the railing of his small ship. Even with his leather coat, he was soaked to the bone in an instant as the sea tried its damnedest to bring him down.

The odd part of it all was that the sky was clear and the headwinds were on his side—it was a perfect day for sailing; no sign of storm anywhere on the horizon.

And yet, the sea itself was being the cruel mistress, beating him over and over again with waves several meters high. His muscles ached with his fervid attempts to steer out of the mysterious squall, but it was no use: the largest swell yet cracked the mast and gouged the hull, with successive waves turning the rest of his handiwork into driftwood and dragging him to the depths.

His heavy jacket weighed him down, and as the world above faded into the navy blue of the water, he found he’d rather stay under the surface. Let himself drown in his regrets and failures, and keep the Darkness away from the rest of the world even more.

But the sea truly didn’t want him, and so dragged him up and spat him out on some lonely stretch of beach not far from another port town—the exact sort of place Killian didn’t want to be. He gave himself a few more minutes to wallow before summoning the energy to begin the trek home; he expected the Darkness to have some quip at his disastrous adventure, but it seemed satisfied with his own self-loathing.

The journey back took him past a familiar set of walls. He had returned to the garden on occasion, but only very rarely, and took care not to touch a thing—other than the door, which he had rebuilt and put into place perhaps 5 years or so after his first ill-fated afternoon here. By then, it had slowly started to recover from the damage he’d wrought, but it was still mostly lifeless.

On this particular visit, there were green shoots of grass struggling through the dead overgrowth, and though the fountain no longer bubbled with life, the tar that had marred it was at least washed away by years of rain.

A lone flower was blooming on one of the vines—a bud a bright shade of orange-red like the sun just before it sets, and it glowed in much the same way in the comparative colorlessness of the rest of the space.

Killian was too scared to touch it, lest he curse the oasis anew. But the fact that there was some bit of light in this scarred place gave him hope—something he clung to like a parched man in the middle of the ocean with only a bit of fresh water in his canteen.

When he was closing the door behind him, the back of his hand brushed against a thorny branch near the threshold; he hissed as the skin was torn, more out of habit than true pain.

The cuts would go away quickly, but he looked at the thin, jagged lines before they healed. One barely scratched the surface, but the other was deep enough for blood to well. Despite what many would have thought, the sight of blood didn’t alarm him or turn his stomach—he’d seen far too many gruesome injuries, his own included, to be scared of it.

What alarmed him, though, was how much darker his blood was than usual. Fresh blood wasn’t the crisp, bright red most people assumed—it was a deep garnet color, assuming it was from someone healthy, and dried a brownish color. (It was hell to get out of white fabric; with how clumsy Killian was, it was why he preferred to wear black.)

However, one thick drop of blood started to run down the back of his hand, and it was so dark, it was nearly black. The blink of an eye later and it was gone, the wound healed and flesh as flawless as it had been a moment before.

But that color—that did terrify Killian, more than he could admit. And it wasn’t the first time he’d noticed it, no—he’d sliced himself open more times than he’d like to admit sawing planks for his ill-fated ship, and the number of papercuts he got while reading was depressingly high. 

As the years wore on, he’d seen the color get darker and darker; he truly worried for the day it would be fully black, but he knew it was coming. More and more often, he’d have fits of rage he couldn’t explain, or even fathom; and he found himself using his dark magic without even thinking about it. (To be fair, these occurrences only happened once a year or so, but with all of eternity laying ahead of him, that was often enough to be of note.)

One day, the Darkness would win—but he’d be damned (quite literally, in all likelihood) if he let it have its way easily.

By the time he arrived home, late into the night, his clothing had dried but his heart was still a bit waterlogged. He tried to seek some solace on the back porch of his home, which sat right on the edge of the cliff. The moon’s dappled reflection on the waves of the horizon was certainly a balm, but he was distracted by the angry waters directly beneath him.

He looked down, and could see the waves clawing at the rocks, as if they were trying to grab him again; perhaps they’d decided they weren’t yet done with him.

_ It’s not them—it’s you, you idiot _ , the Darkness snarled.  _ It’s a warning to all others—keep away; keep far away. It knows what you are _ .

“That’s not me,” Killian murmured back, but it had less fight than it used to.

_ Not yet...but it will be _ .


	2. Am I All Alone In the Universe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title for this one comes from "The Lover After Me" by Savage Garden (obvs)
> 
> Some backstory in this chapter! And a new/familiar face arrives at the end...

“Well, well, seems like you finally found the family you could never have with me,” the creature jibed.

Killian couldn’t call him a man, though he clearly had been one at some point. But he wore the effects of dark magic on him like a second skin—scaly in texture and a mottled green-gold color that made him think of a crocodile or some other reptile. Whatever he was, all he knew was that Rumpelstiltskin was not anyone to take lightly; the captain’s corpse bleeding out on the quarterdeck was evidence of that.

Milah was standing in front of Killian, not quite shielding him but close enough that she could if needed. She did that often. 

From what he’d gathered in the blur of events, this monster was after a magic bean, which their captain always seemed to have on hand—and was also the husband Milah had fled from a handful of years ago, when she joined their crew. He could see why.

From a pouch on her belt, Milah pulled out said bean and held it up for inspection, then tossed it to Smee, the bo’sun, before her former spouse could make a grab for it. 

“You asked to see it, and now you have. Do we have a deal? Can we go our separate ways?” Her tone was commanding, but he supposed that was appropriate—not only did she possess the fiercest spirit Killian had ever encountered, but she was technically in charge: she’d worked her way up to first mate after she’d been discovered as a stowaway. With the captain gone, the title was hers. 

“Do you mean, do I forgive you? Can I move on?” Goodness, he had a flair for the dramatic. “Perhaps, perhaps. I can see you are truly happy.”

“Thank you,” she answered tersely, then turned away from the monster and found Killian’s eyes. She was trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t read if her expression was relieved or concerned.

“Just one question,” the Dark One continued.

Milah faced him again. “What do you want to know?”

The air began to crackle as the wind snapped the sails; dark clouds came from nowhere and Killian could feel the static pricking at his skin.

“How could you leave Bae?” the Dark One snarled, taking a calculated step toward Milah. Even Killian got goosebumps at that; Milah had told him all about her boy, and how much she had hated to leave him. “Do you know what it was like walking home that night…”

Gasps came from all around as lines began to break and fly. One snapped next to Killian, making him jump; he would have yelped, too, were he not trying to hold his breath.

The villain continued his monologue as he approached Milah, who was edging closer to Killian, a protective arm held out in his direction. Killian wanted to step away—to run, dive, anything—but he was frozen in place, watching the scene unfold.

He hadn’t known much love in this life, and what little he had was but a faded memory. Except Milah—he had her now, little as he probably deserved her. She showed him a level of care and camaraderie he hadn’t had in years, if ever—a lone beacon of light in the seemingly endless drudgery of servitude. And his greatest fear right now was that this monster was going to take it all away.

“I was wrong to lie to you. I was the coward. I knew that.” He’d never heard Milah beg like this; not even when she was first discovered on the ship, seeking asylum.

“You left him! You abandoned him!” Rumplestiltskin spat; he was mere inches from Milah, close enough for Killian to see the eerie yellow color tinting his eyes.

“And there's not a day that goes by that I don't feel sorry for that.” He’d held her while the tears came over that subject more than once; for that reason, he’d never quite told her about his own history with parental abandonment, though he was certain her reasons were better than his father’s.

The storm continued to build as tension mounted between the two figures arguing at middeck. An attempt was being made my crew members to right the rigging and prepare for the magical tempest, but most had their eyes fixed on the quarrel.

Everything seemed to go quiet when Milah let spew her final curse. “Because I never loved you.”

The entire world froze for a moment as that statement washed over the Dark One. The man must have had some semblance of a heart left, because his face fell for a moment.

But it was gone as soon as it appeared—a blink of humanity in the soul of someone who’d given themselves over to darkness long ago. Malice took hold, rage twisting his features, and he thrust a claw towards Milah’s chest.

“No!” Killian screamed, finally coming unglued from his spot on the deck and rushing to her. As she started to fall, he slipped under her in time to catch her.

He’d heard a rumor that the Dark One possessed the ability to take hearts but had prayed it wasn’t true. Those prayers fell on deaf ears, apparently, because there hers was, red and glowing in Rumpelstiltskin’s scaly palm. Up close, he was able to take in the way everything about this man oozed danger, from the rough texture of his clothes to the various weapons hanging off his belt.

“Oh, isn’t this precious,” he sneered. “Looks like someone has a little…crush.” Dramatically, he began to do that to her heart, squeezing it in his hand.

Milah convulsed in his arms. Killian tried to hold her close and keep her still, but it was to no avail. “I love you,” he murmured as her eyes closed for the last time and she fell limp in his embrace.

The only sound to be heard was his own stifled sobs as he set her body down on the deck. She looked peaceful, like she did in sleep, but gone was the light pink of her cheeks, or the gentle rise and fall of her chest with breath.

“You may be powerful, demon,” Killian cried out in a rare moment of boldness, “but you're no less a coward than I am.”

If he heard the outburst, he made no indication, instead turning his sights on Smee. “I'll have what I came for now.”

Killian stood and put himself between the men. “You'll have to kill me first.” For the first time ever, he held his hook aloft as a weapon, and not just the tool it had been for years now. In any other situation, it surely would have earned snickers from the crew; no one said a word now.

“That can be easily arranged, dearie,” the Dark One said. “You don’t look like much of a fight.”

Before the other man could make a move, Killian ran at him, plunging his hook into the creature’s chest. Milah was all he’d had left; he wouldn’t take her death lightly.

Rumpelstiltskin took a step back from the impact, but didn’t seem all that affected by the hunk of metal stuck in him. In fact, he started laughing. “Killing me is gonna take a lot more than that, sonny boy. My advice? Forget the whore and find a new one.”

White hot rage like he’d never known bubbled up inside. He couldn’t think of anything other than destroying this monster. Without looking, Killian reached for one of the daggers hanging on the Dark One’s person, pulled it from its holster, and plunged it into the man’s other breast, where his heart should be (if he still had one).

The shudder that came from his body shook Killian, connected as they still were by the two weapons. Rumplestiltskin coughed, sputtered, and fell on the deck, dragging Killian with him.

Then he cackled—a maniacal, shrill thing, almost comical in its intensity. “Oh, dearie—you have no idea what you’ve done, have you?”

“I’ve killed you and that’s all that matters,” Killian threw back. He was straddled over the dying man, watching as his breaths became more erratic with each passing moment.

“I just wish,” he wheezed, “I wish I could see what comes next.”

“What?” Why would the Dark One care about Killian’s fate? If he was lucky, he’d be free of the ship; if not, he supposed he’d spend the rest of his life on it.

“Humor a dying man.” He coughed violently, blood coming to his lips. “Pull out the dagger.”

Killian did, slowly, doing anything he could to drag on the man’s suffering.

“Tell me: what’s it say?”

An ornate design was embossed in the blade on the side facing Killian, so he flipped it over—and gasped.

Engraved in the steel, in an ornate block print, was  _ Killian Jones _ . And to his horror, a glimmering blue sheen had taken over the skin of his hand, while dark tendrils of black ooze were trailing from the dagger and winding around his arm.

“No, no—I don’t want this!” Killian screamed. “Take it back!”

“No can do, dearie,” the apparently former Dark One breathed back. “Enjoy immortality.” And then he took his last breath, and drifted into dust.

The black magic continued to flow around Killian, wrapping itself about his limbs and constricting around his chest and body. He could feel it seeping into his veins and clenched his eyes shut to block out the images it was pulling from his mind—all the traumas, all the tragedies were playing out in front of him. 

_ Fresh meat _ , an unfamiliar voice purred.

_ Too bad—I really liked the last one. _

_ Hey, I’m still here! _

_ Oh, he’s so pretty. _

_ Yea, but he’s weak. What do we do with him? _

_ Same as all the others—we corrupt him. He just might be the strongest Dark One yet. _

* * *

“No!”

Killian startled himself from his stupor by shouting. Evidently, he’d drifted off. Not in the way most people did, considering he hadn’t truly slept in nearly a century now—but every so often, he’d find himself so deeply lost in a trance-like state that memories would start to play on their own, as if they were a dream.

It was never the pleasant ones, of course; only the traumatic ones. Yet another way for the Darkness to play mind games. By now, though, he was used to all of them.

Still—that memory always unsettled him: that he was capable of that kind of malice. As deep as his love had been for Milah, and still was, he hated the idea that he’d been able to murder in cold blood, even if there’d been a few more added to his body count in the interim (all accidental—or at least, he thought they were).

He sighed, rubbed his face, and stood and stretched from the chair he’d been reclined in on his back porch. The evening had drawn cold, and while he didn’t necessarily feel it, it seemed like a good night to read next to the hearth.

_ Where’s the fun in that, though? We could go recreate that day, eh? Murder some slavers? _

“No,” Killian said sternly, like a tired father scolding a rambunctious child.

_ Oh, oh! Or we could go start a bar fight and watch the chaos unfold! _

“Let’s not.” He set the kettle over the fireplace to brew tea, then stoked the flames.

_ We could just light this whole place up and start again somewhere else. Find the looters who’ve probably gotten lost in the castle—just a bit of light torture! _

“No, thank you; I’m quite fine here.” He stood once the fire was going strong again, and was going to go find a novel to read when the reflection in the mirror above the mantle caught his gaze—and horrified him.

“ _ We’ll break you yet, dearie _ ,” Rumpelstiltskin hissed at him from the other side of the looking glass.

“You won’t. I’ve made it this far; and I can keep going.”

“ _ Sure, sure...but for how long? _ ” The image in the mirror flashed and changed, and he was staring at himself once more—but his skin was covered in reptilian scales and his eyes glowed a freakish blue. The perverse smirk and hungry gaze were not expressions he’d ever worn, but—and he hated to admit this—they didn’t look entirely unnatural. In fact, he looked far too comfortable like that.

He squeezed his eyes shut and contracted in on himself, like he had all those years ago before waking up in the Dark One’s vault. “Enough!” he yelled, and the whole house vibrated.

Things got eerily quiet then. He opened his eyes, and his reflection was back to normal. But his entire body was quivering. He held his hand up for inspection, and the dark magic swirling in his veins was boldly visible through his palm. He had to get out.

Even in the middle of the night, there was only one place he’d find any solace. He grabbed his thickest cloak and left, running out in the forest and taking the meandering path he’d memorized to the garden.

He moved as smooth as a shadow and likely cast an imposing figure, with his cape billowing out behind him. But he’d discovered over the decades that the more intimidating he looked, the more likely it was that people would stay away. He was no longer scared of what they might tempt him to do; no—he’d rather not tempt the Darkness. 

_ You never let us have any fun anymore! _ it would pout. He’d gotten good at ignoring it, though, save for the outbursts like tonight. 

The garden came into view, shining like a beacon of hope in the dark night. He’d taken care to keep the outside as clean as possible; he could do that without damaging the inside. 

Although—was it gleaming just a bit brighter tonight? True, it was the full moon, but it seemed exceptionally effulgent at the moment. 

The door was ajar when he reached it. That wasn’t uncommon—his carpentry wasn’t that stellar—but there was a different presence in the garden, beyond its usual ethereal aura. He pushed the door open—and his breath was stolen. (Good thing he didn’t need it.) 

Someone had definitely been here, because the garden was completely renewed. Lanterns placed at varying spots around the space gave off a warm, gentle glow that could only be magical in nature. Everything was clean and crisp, and the fountain gurgled happily. And all the flowers were in bloom, despite the approaching autumn—roses, violets, lavender, orchids, all manner of lilies, and more filled the garden with their soft colors and light fragrance.

Just like his first visit, he absorbed it in awe. He refused to touch anything because whoever or whatever had done this clearly put love into it; he daren’t be the one to bring further harm.

After he’d made the full circle, he took a seat on one of the restored benches; it was firm and warm beneath him, and the surrounding rose bushes enveloped him with their delicate scent. More than ever, the garden was the haven it had been all those years ago when he first discovered it, and more so than in any time since.

He lost track of how long he spent just sitting there, at peace. Either the Darkness had nothing to say, or the light magic of the place was keeping it away. The sky overhead was lightening and he was contemplating just staying in there forever; it wasn’t like anyone would miss him, and perhaps he could meet whoever had brought beauty back in.

_ What will they find, though? A hermit with few to no social skills, one hand, and a demonic possession he barely tolerates? _

“No one asked for your opinion,” Killian muttered back, but he’d had the same sort of intrusive thoughts. He hardly understood what Milah had seen in him—what was even left at this point for anyone else?

_ That’s right—nothing. _

“Bugger off.” He shook his head; he’d fallen for it again—the Darkness trying to convince him that he was worthless, and to give into it. To be fair, he didn’t have much hope, but if protecting the world from the Darkness was his one purpose in life, he’d do it.

That said, he was shaken enough that he didn’t want to press his luck by staying around any longer. Half-heartedly, he rose to his feet and proceeded out.

Near the door, a rose bush hung over the cobbled path, heavy with blossoms. He did his best to skirt it, but still his hand grazed a bloom. It wasn’t a surprise when the petals shriveled up and died, and then the whole plant after it. He hung his head in shame—but did note that at least he hadn’t wrecked the whole garden this time.

Still, that was sign enough that it was time to leave, and he began the trek home, letting the morning dew cling to his boots and cloak as he traveled. He hid from a caravan on the road when it approached, waiting for the people—and the Darkness’s calls for blood—to pass before finally retreating to his cottage.

* * *

The garden wouldn’t be forgotten, though—not that it ever truly was, but something in that magic had taken root in his mind, just like whatever it had done to the flora. He found himself humming more often; adding some windows to his home to let the light in more; and getting lost in more romance novels than he ever had before. He’d even ventured to the book shop in town for some new ones; the proprietress gave him several sideways glances but his gold was good, so she made no comment.

He didn’t wish to tempt fate by traveling there every night, but his visits did increase in frequency. On his first trip back, he noticed that the rose bush he’d killed was thriving once more, perhaps even bigger than it had been before. The Darkness still jibed and taunted, as it was wont to do, but he was able to tune it out better there. 

Each time, he considered staying. But each time, he took the coward’s way out and left before dawn. Whoever it was working their magic here was certainly far too good for the likes of him. (And that wasn’t the Darkness talking.)

He seriously considered stopping his visits after the third one in a row where something caught on him, just a brush against his skin, and promptly withered. But he wasn’t that strong, and on the following visit, it was always reborn. He simply took to wearing a glove over his hand and keeping the hood of his cloak up to minimize the chance for contact.

Armor in place, he got a bit bolder, staying later and later into the early morning. The rising sun was his companion on the journey home, which seemed to get shorter each time he made it. A path was starting to wear from his frequent visits, though it was still only visible to the trained eye.

One particularly nice morning, when the breeze blew warm, he was especially loathe to leave the garden. He watched the line of sunlight as it crept down the far wall, and the flowers in the vines that covered it opened to the rays. How he wished that was all it took to shake off his own burdens and the things keeping him closed off—just a bit of brightness to burn away the dark.

The sun shined on half of the wall by the time he rose to leave; it was the latest he’d stayed yet. But given that he didn’t have any pressing appointments (ever, really), he wasn’t too worried about taking his time.

With his gloved hand, he paused to cradle a gorgeous blossom on a hedge. It was a rich fuschia and sweet in scent, and he liked to imagine he could feel the velvet of the petal through the leather. But that was enough for today; he stepped back, carefully letting the flower go, and pulled his hood back up before taking long strides to the exit.

He’d hardly taken a few steps, though, before he was colliding with something—no, someone.

“Uf!” he groaned at the same time a feminine voice gasped “Oh!”

Instinctively, he kept his hook away from her, but grabbed her shoulder to stabilize her. Once she was steady, he took a step back, and anything he might have said died before it could reach his lips.

She was an angel. Or a siren. Or some other creature of ethereal beauty. Blonde hair fell in waves over her shoulders, framing a soft face set with eyes a shade of green so bright, it made the garden seem dreary. Her lips perfectly matched the flower he’d just held. And the furrowed set of her eyebrows made him realize she wasn’t as taken with him as he was with her.

Immediately, he took a step back. “My apologies, ma’am,” he stammered, ducking his head to avoid her suddenly intense gaze.

“Who are you and how did you find this place?” she demanded.

He could tell by the sharpness in her voice she was not to be trifled with. “I’ve been coming to this garden for years; discovered it ages ago. But I usually only come at night.”

She took a step towards him, and he hazarded a glance up. She was still studying him, eyes aflame as they assessed him. The closer she got, the harder his heart beat, and he could almost feel the static tension in the air.

Standing in front of him, she looked him up and down, and that’s when he realized his hood had fallen back in the collision, allowing her to truly see him; he gulped, knowing that the sun was surely glinting off his shimmering skin, letting her know that he likely wasn’t as innocent as he appeared.

Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open in some level of shock. She pointed an accusatory finger at him and exclaimed, “You’re the one who keeps killing my plants, aren’t you?” 

“Aye,” he nodded, hanging his head. It came as no surprise that someone as radiant as her was the source of the garden’s transformation, and even if he’d just met her, he felt ashamed at already letting her down. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Sorry’s not enough. Is that why you’re here?”

“No!” he protested. “I don’t do it on purpose—I swear—”

“Uh-huh, sure,” she cut him off. “Don’t try to lie to me, buddy. I know your type, and I know dark magic when I see it.”

“No, it wasn’t—it’s not—”

“Yes it is; don’t deny it! Why can’t you people just leave the few beautiful things in this world alone?”

“I promise you, that’s all I w—”

“Don’t.” She silenced him with a word. “Nothing good can come from you and your darkness being here. Just...just go.”

Despite the fact that she wasn’t touching him, he felt like she’d punched him in the gut and knocked his wind out. Because she was probably right—he’d been fooling himself to think he belonged there.

Without saying another word, he nodded his head, carefully stepped around her, and walked out. But as soon as he was outside, he practically sprinted home.

The Darkness cackled in his ear the entire way.


	3. I'm Gonna Crash Into Your World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title comes from "Violet" by Savage Garden (duh)

Killian moped and hid for several days, but after he’d broken three mugs and set one of his new novels ablaze in inexplicable rages, he knew he needed to get back to the garden’s tranquility. 

_ Why bother? You’re just gonna delay the inevitable. _

“It’s still a delay.”

He had to assume the garden’s new protector wasn’t as nocturnal as he was; so long as he took extra care not to leave a mark and was gone by daybreak, he should be fine. (Worst-case scenario...he used magic to leave. But he could probably avoid that.)

Returning to the oasis was like breathing fresh air after so long cooped up, even more than the sea breeze on his balcony or the walk through the forest could offer. His constantly racing heart calmed immediately, and he could feel the Darkness pressed back to the recesses of his mind; he should probably worry what it was doing there, but the respite was too blissful for him really consider it.

He only dallied for a few hours before leaving, not wanting to risk blonde fury. She’d been something else, though, hadn’t she? He hadn’t seen that kind of fierceness in anyone since Milah. Not that he had much to compare it to, but still—despite their rocky meeting, he was left somewhat in awe.

_ Except she hates you _ , the Darkness cheerfully reminded. 

“I’m aware,” he sighed. But still—one could dream. (Or whatever he did instead of dreaming.)

He resumed his nightly visits, extra wary of his presence in the eden; he didn’t even sit on a bench or walk quickly, lest he stir up a breeze and disturb the lawn. He took in the fragrances from a safe distance and ingrained the shape of the petals into his mind’s eye—a perk of his extra-sharp vision. And he left well before dawn. 

He was pleased with himself; he wasn’t typically one for rebellion, despite his servitude on a pirate ship. But it wasn’t like she owned the garden, right?

Wrong, apparently. Because after a few weeks of uneventful visits, he’d hardly set foot inside the walls one night before a piercing, shrill whistle sounded, rattling his brain in his skull; he covered his ears in an attempt to muffle it, but it felt like it was coming from inside his head. 

The pain in his cranium was quickly replaced by pain all over as he was tackled from behind, pinned to the ground on his stomach as some force held him down. He could see where the grass died at contact with his face. 

“I thought I told you to leave!” It was her again—of course. 

“You never said I couldn’t come back,” he snarled, a foreign—but sadly, not unfamiliar—rage coursing through him; how dare she attack when he was minding his own business!

A moment later, he was flipped over on his back and a dagger was at his neck. The blonde sorceress was straddling his hips, fury etched in her features. “Most people would have assumed the unsaid,” she bit back. 

“I’m not most people, lass,” he snapped. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.” Heat was rising with his anger, starting at his core and emanating out.

For a brief moment, fear flashed in her eyes; she must have felt the magical shift in the air around him. But it was gone in a blink, determination taking its spot as she summoned a ball of white magic into her free hand. “Try me.”

“Oh, trust me—you don’t want that,” he countered, his own powers flickering like black lightning in his palm, even with the glove on. Sparks began to shower off it, killing the plants wherever they fell.

_ Imagine what it could do to her _ , the Darkness whispered, followed by a chorus of other ghostly voices encouraging him to  _ Do it! Do it! Dooooo itttttt.... _

Her eyes widened as she glanced at the danger lurking in his grip, her fight or flight response trying to decide which was best. She was scared.  _ Perfect _ .

Wait—she was scared...of him? No; no, that couldn’t...he blinked a few times as recognisance took over. What the bloody hell was he doing?

He closed his hand in a fist around the dark magic, squelching it; he could almost feel it stop in its tracks as it rushed through his veins. As best he could, he scrambled back away from her, casting her on her rear, but that was surely a less grievous injury than whatever he’d been about to do.

In the last glimpse he caught of her face, she wore an expression of pure confusion. “I’m...I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean...I’m sorry,” he sputtered, then called on the magic to whisk him away.

When the smoke cleared, he was on his balcony, gasping for air he didn’t truly need—he could only assume it was a buried nervous reaction in his body. He could feel tears welling at his eyes as shame washed over him; how had he let it get that far? That had never happened before—not to that extreme.

_ We told you—it’s inevitable. Stop fighting it. Wasn’t it exhilarating? _

“No, it wasn’t.” The adrenaline running through him did not come from joy.

_ Ohh, but it was—facing off against a proper magic user for once? We could have some fun with her, dearie. _

“You won’t. I won’t let you.”

_ How? You clearly can’t keep out of that garden. _

“I won’t go back; I mean it this time.”

_ You’re too weak to keep that promise. And apparently too stupid to avoid the one thing that can kill you. _

That had his attention. “What?”

_ She was radiating pure light magic! Didn’t you feel that? _

He collapsed into his chair as he thought back to their confrontation—the pure light of her magic and her reaction to his.

_ The only thing that can destroy darkness is light. _

“Is that so,” he said dryly. Maybe there was a way out of this curse after all; he didn’t care if it cost him his life, so long as it was destroyed.

_ We know what you’re thinking _ , the chorus hissed.  _ We won’t let you. _

“We’ll see about that.”

* * *

There was no waiting around for a cool down this time. Even if he didn’t go inside, he still had to be near the garden; just knowing what—and who—lay inside was enough to calm him, though the voices taunted him at every turn.

_ Do you really have such little self-preservation? _

“It would seem so.”

The cool stone walls tamped down the blazing dark heat that would well up, and even the flowering vines that covered them were a balm.

_ What a waste of resources _ , the Darkness scoffed as he observed a perfect petal.  _ Magic can be used for so much more—to steal, to win, to conquer! _

Even if he wasn’t witness to her raw power, he knew that wasn’t the case. Despite his personal interactions with magic being rather negative, he grew up on tales of powerful, just wizards and goodness prevailing over evil, always. While he knew it was never in the cards for him, he’d always been especially in awe over tales of true love prevailing over all else.

It made him curious to see her in action. Surely her magic didn’t only take the form of the alarm system he’d set off or the defensive display he’d triggered, though even that had a raw kind of beauty about it.

So he decided one night, a few weeks after their faceoff, that he wouldn’t flee before dawn this time. The sun was just about to break over the horizon when he selected a vine near the door and touched it with his bare fingers, watching as it shriveled in his hand—but knowing that it wouldn’t be that way for long.

As nimbly as he could manage, he climbed a tree near the door, out of sight but with a full view of the entrance, and sat in wait for her arrival. He probably could have made himself invisible, but knowing him, he would have just set the tree on fire if he tried.

_ We can make that happen. _

He didn’t acknowledge the suggestion, because footsteps were falling on the path that led to the door. He’d never traveled down it, preferring his own self-made trail to anything where he might encounter people; he thought the village of Longbourne lay that way, or maybe the capital of Misthaven? For as long as he’d been around, he was rough on his geography, and goodness knew how it had changed over the years.

No matter; what was important was who was arriving: the still-nameless guardian of the garden. From this vantage point, he was finally able to take in her odd manner of dress: a long white cloak that she’d had on during their first meeting, made of such a fine material that told him she either came from money or had stolen from the rich. Because below it, she wore a utilitarian outfit of a blue leather jerkin and matching leggings, comfortably worn boots, and a simple tunic underneath the top that all indicated a life of labour. Her hair was down today, but it had been pulled back during their altercation. 

Her appearance painted a contradictory image that he couldn’t puzzle out, though he supposed his own monk-like cloak, leather pants and boots, and wide-open shirt were equally in opposition. 

As she approached the gate, he could tell the exact moment she noticed his handiwork. She paused midstep, then glanced around, no doubt looking for him; thankfully, she didn’t think to look up. Then she turned back to the dead vine and marched up to it. 

He held his breath as he watched her work, because it was more beautiful than he expected: gently, she held the blackened plant in one hand, and the other hovered over it until tiny spheres of white light sprang forth, some finding the vine immediately and others floating up to find and heal its farther reaches. At one point, the entire vine glowed with magic, and when the light faded, it was completely restored.

“Wow,” he breathed, completely stunned. But then he clamped his mouth shut and prayed she hadn’t heard that.

Luck was not on his side. “I know you’re there,” she called out, sounding almost resigned. “You can come on down.”

He stayed frozen; he had no idea what to do. The Darkness was screaming that it was a trap, but other than the safeguards she’d put on the garden, he couldn’t see her being so devious. And if she was extending an invitation, wouldn’t it make sense for him to accept it, especially if she held the key to ending the Dark One?

Carefully, he began to pick his way down the branches, but going down was harder than going up, and he missed a foothold, falling the rest of the way down and landing on his back with a groan. Anyone else would have been seriously injured, and the jolt was bad enough that he felt like he was, but whatever had been holding his body together all these years made sure he went unscathed; it just hurt like hell.

The woman made no effort to help him, but at least she didn’t make fun of him, which in itself was a change from the usual response to his clumsiness. Granted, no one had done that in over a century, but the memory was still fresh.

When he’d finally recovered enough to move, he hoisted himself up, brushed himself off, and then turned to face her. She was wearing an utterly unimpressed expression; now that, he was used to.

“My apologies for the intrusion,” he said, with a meek bow, not sure what else to say. Did she want to interrogate him? Formally banish him? There were any number of punishments she could execute.

“It’s fine,” she said with a slight, casual shrug. “I thought about it, and I figured that a Dark One who is obsessed with a garden, of all things, can’t be all that bad.”

He breathed in sharply. It shouldn’t have come to a surprise that she knew what he was, but no one had addressed him as such in so long; he had thought that perhaps the Dark One was just a legend by now, but apparently not.

“Are you sure about that, lass?” he asked her. “You’ve seen what I can do.” And if she knew her history, then she likely knew what the Darkness was capable of.

“Yeah, but you didn’t,” she countered. “Come on in,” she added with a tilt of her head toward the open door, then headed in herself.

The Darkness tried to hold him back, but one glimpse of the haven within the walls was all it took for him to follow her.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back as he breathed in the sweet floral scent inside. This was probably the latest in the day he’d been here, and with the flowers opening even more to the sun overhead, the fragrance was stronger than he’d ever noticed.

“So what was that one?” Her voice pulled him from his calm reverie; she’d taken a seat on one of the benches, shirked her cloak, and was basking in the warm light.

“I beg your pardon?” he stammered.

“The vine; was that an accident, or on purpose? I know you said you didn’t mean to cause damage, but that seemed pretty specific.”

He could feel a flush rising. “I’m afraid that one was intentional.”

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“I was just…curious,” he admitted.

She sat up a little straighter as he slowly shuffled in her direction; he could see her hackles rising. “About my magic?”

“Aye.” He felt like he needed to tell the truth, or something resembling it, lest she cast him out again. “Please don’t take this as me being forward, but I can’t honestly say I’ve seen anything quite so beautiful as it.” Except her, maybe, but that would definitely cross a line.

She gave a small smile back. “It’s been a while since anyone said anything like that to me.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” he blurted out.

She rolled her eyes, but was grinning. “I bet you’re full of lines like that, aren’t you?”

“Uh, no, actually; I’m not quite sure where that came from, to be honest.”

“Hopefully not the same place as that black storm ball you had a few weeks ago.”

_ Did you already forget that you nearly killed her? _ the Darkness taunted as his gaze drifted to the grass.  _ Should have known you’d get so easily lost in a pretty face, just like Milah— _

“No!” he shouted, before those visions could play in his mind again. Emma jumped at the noise, her face falling to somewhere between concerned and panicked. “I mean—no, it’s not. I must apologize again for that clash; I wasn’t fully in control at the moment.”

“Does that happen a lot?” she asked softly.

“More often than I’d like.”

“That’s gotta be tough.”

He shrugged. “Everyone has their burdens to bear. This one is mine.”

She hummed in thought, then let her gaze wander around the garden.

“So how long have you been coming here?” she asked. He gaped for a moment; no one had asked him about him or his life in...well, ever. She glanced back at him looking almost alarmed, making him realize he hadn’t responded; his conversation skills were rustier than he thought.

“A very long time,” he answered, a bit gravely. 

“Even when it was all dead?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Why?”

He mused for a moment before answering. “Because it’s quiet. Because even then, nature managed to renew itself and continue on; I hoped...maybe I could, too.”

She only gave him half a smile, but it was enough to warm the coldest parts within him. “I like that. My mother always told me that happy endings start with hope.”

“Your mother sounds like a terribly smart woman.”

“She was.”

Oh, bloody hell—he really hadn’t learned anything about tact, had he? “My apologies.”

“It’s...never mind.” Something had struck a nerve, and the subsequent awkwardness in the air was a familiar feeling that usually indicated it was his fault.

“I...I’ll get out of your hair, then,” he said quietly, not wanting to intrude on her quiet time any longer. She wasn’t looking at him, anyway, so he turned and started to leave.

“Emma.”

He paused; what? He turned back to look at her, and she was rising from her seat, walking towards him. Once she stood in front of him, she extended her hand out. 

“My name. It’s Emma.”

It showed how removed from society he was when he didn’t know how to respond to an introduction, but he gingerly took her delicate fingers in his gloved ones.

“Are you gonna tell me yours, or is that against the Dark One rules or something?” she lightly teased.

He only then realized his jaw was hanging open; quickly, he closed it, regained his composure, and answered, “Killian.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Killian.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Emma.” For a long moment, he just stared into her eyes—which were a softer green in this light—until he realized he was still awkwardly holding her hand.

He quickly thought back to those romance novels he’d been reading and what all the gentlemen did in those: he brought her hand to his lips and placed the gentlest of kisses on the back of it. Where her soft skin met his, he felt a sharp spark—almost as if the air was quivering around them—but it was immediately forgotten when she blushed the same pink as the roses in the background and smiled at him.

(Offhandedly, he wondered what it looked like when he blushed; he could feel heat rising in his cheeks, but did it show up pink, or tint his bluish skin purple? He supposed it didn’t really matter as long as she wasn’t running away in horror—though he’d taken care to .)

“I best be on my way, then,” he said, dropping her hand and immediately missing its warmth in his. “Have a lovely day, Emma.” That was his new favorite name, he decided.

“You, too,” she said softly. He turned again to leave but she called back one more time. “And hey—don’t be a stranger; it’s nice to see that someone else appreciates this place.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“O-okay then,” he stuttered. “Until then, then.”

She laughed a little and a sideways grin lit up her features. “Until then.”

He finally headed out, not letting himself have so much as a backwards glance—because he knew he might truly never leave then.

The walk home had never been more refreshing, they day never so beautiful, the leaves never so glorious in their reds and golds. The Darkness was trying to tell him something, but for the first time ever, he was able to completely drown it out. Were he still a boy, he’d probably start skipping. 

Well, that might have been going a bit too far, but it had been ages since his heart felt as light as it did. In hindsight, that should have been a sign that something was amiss.

For as soon as he’d arrived home and slipped off his glove, there it was: those pulsating shadows in his palm. The static from when he touched Emma had never quite left; that must have been why.

_ You blithering fool! You almost had her! _

“I won’t harm her,” he warned.

_ If you don’t, she’ll kill you.  _

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he tossed back, knowing it would rile them up.

As expected, the Darkness erupted in a cacophony of shouts hammering inside his head. He winced at the onslaught and headed to his back porch, collapsing into his chair in hopes the view of the sun on the water below would quell them. It did, eventually—it always did—but it took longer than usual; not until the sun was setting beyond the horizon, tinting the water with its myriad colors. 

He ignored the night chill as he watched the moon rise over the land. He wondered if there was some symbolism in the cool blue of its light on the water, much like his own pallor, in opposition to Emma’s golden sunshine among the greenery.

Oh, goodness—he was getting ahead of himself. Perhaps the romance novels were too much.

_ One actual conversation and you’re a lovesick puppydog. Sickening. _

“Shut up.”


	4. The Same Two People Looking Out to Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title again comes from "Violet" by Savage Garden; this song just has a lot of lyrics that fit these two.

He couldn’t go to the garden again for a several more days as a storm that rolled in that night decided to send a tree branch through his roof, making a mess of his greatroom. It wasn’t the first time that had happened—everything in the cottage had been rebuilt at some point, and the manual labor was just another thing he could focus on that wasn’t the voices in his head encouraging him to just fix it with a wave of his hand.

He was sweeping the detritus from the room when he discovered the branch had also broken through the secret compartment he’d built under the floor. Usually, it was covered by a rug, but that had been trashed, too. As soon as he saw the crevice, he dropped what he was doing to make sure its contents were unharmed.

He extracted the sleek black box from the space and exhaled in relief that it was unharmed.

_ Nothing can break that, or have you already forgotten? _

“I haven’t. Just needed to make sure.”

_ It’s the one thing you’ve done right. _

The box was wrought from cast iron, an inch thick on all sides, and sealed with a blood lock—the only magic he had ever wanted to use. He set the box on the damaged floor in front of him and grabbed a thorny branch laying on the floor with which to prick his finger; his hook was far too dull to do anything that meticulous.

Once a drop of blood welled up, he quickly used it to draw an  _ M _ on the surface of the box before the wound healed on its own. The box seemed to absorb his blood and the lid released with a click, despite having no obvious lock.

He opened it, and there it still lay, just as gleaming and menacing as on that day all those years ago: his dagger. He hated to call it his, but it was hard to protest when it was his name engraved in steel with the same darkness that had been his companion for the all these years.

He quickly locked it back up and stuck it back in its hole, bunching up the damaged rug over it for concealment until he had the materials to repair it. He wasn’t all that worried about someone taking it—the sole perk to having no living relatives was that the blood lock ensured only he could open it. But he still didn’t want to risk it.

On the day he finally got back to the garden, Emma was seated on one of the benches, head thrown back as she soaked in the sun’s rays. “I wondered when I’d see you again,” she called out, even though he’d entered completely silently.

“I had things to tend to at home, else I would have returned sooner. How did you know I was here?” he asked, curious.

She opened her eyes and smiled at him, then scooted over on her bench, inviting him to sit next to her. He hesitated before stepping out of the shade of one of the large trees—especially because once he did, the sunlight on his shimmery skin immediately made her squint, so he stepped back to the darker area.

“Come here,” she said—well, more like commanded, so he did as she told him. But he pulled up his hood and tugged his cloak a bit tighter around him, both to save her eyes and for fear of contact with her setting off the magic again.

“I hate to tell you this,” she started, finally answering his question, “but you’re not as sneaky as you think you are,” she explained, still smiling. “At least, not to me. Even traces of dark magic I can sense, even if you weren’t actively using it.”

Bloody hell, did this mean any magic user could find him? Were all his precautions for naught?

“Don’t worry,” she assured him, sensing his panic. “It’s not everyone who can—just me, I think. At least, that’s what the fairies told me.”

“Fairies? Those are real?”

Emma tilted her head. “The Dark One doesn’t know about fairies?”

He shrugged. “This Dark One doesn’t know much about magic, period.”

_ Much to our disgust. _

She pursed her lips in thought. “Can I ask...just how long have you been the Dark One?”

He nervously scratched behind his ear. “I’m not sure on the exact number, but by my estimates...about a hundred and thirty years, give or take.”

Emma whistled. “And you’ve been on your own that whole time?”

He nodded. “How could you tell?”

“You’ve got that look in your eyes—the one you get when you’ve been left alone.”

He scoffed. “I had that long before any magic came into my life,” he blurted, but regretted it. She didn’t want to hear his tale of woe. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked softly.

He was stunned. The only other person to ask about his life was Milah, and as they’d just established, that was a very long time ago. That said, he didn’t know if he wanted to; while logically, he knew she wouldn’t, anyone else who had ever taken an interest in him just exploited and hurt him.

“Not today, I’m afraid...but maybe another.”

She gave him an encouraging smile. “That’s fine. Wanna hear about the fairies?”

“Sure.”

He honestly didn’t remember all the details of what she was telling him—the politics and rules of diminutive sprites didn’t hold much relevance for him, he didn’t think—but listening to her talk was entertaining enough. She was dryly funny and slightly sarcastic, but it couldn’t hide her genuine enthusiasm at times. 

“You really didn’t know they were real?” she finally asked.

“No; in my time and experience, they were just thought to be legend.”

“Kind of like you, then.”

“I…” he started, but he didn’t really know what to say. Did he explain that he was merely an unwilling vessel for the Darkness? That, regardless of the name on that blade, they were still separate entities? ( _ Unfortunately _ .) That the only thing he could take credit for was ensuring the Dark One became part of history, well in the past? “I...hope that means that there’s no reputation to precede me,” he finally replied. 

“Not much of one,” she answered nonchalantly. “I read about the Dark One in a history book that Blue gave me for homework, but...you don’t seem capable of anything that guy did. Unless you’ve had a crazy change of heart.”

“Uh, well…”  _ Show her what we can do!  _ the Darkness crowed, and his heart rate picked up as the voices called out, most in indignation at their forgotten memory. “Let’s just say that my predecessors had different views on power than I do.”

“You didn’t want it?”

“I don’t, no. But I can keep it from falling into the wrong hands.”

“That sounds noble.”

He snorted again. “I’m not sure about that, but...it’s certainly the least I can do.”

She gave him a thoughtful look but then winced as her stomach grumbled. “Sorry. Guess I need to plant some fruit trees in here.”

“That’d be a lovely addition,” he agreed, his mouth watering at the thought of fresh fruit. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d allowed himself such an indulgence. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He rose to leave but she followed. “Do you want to join me?”

The thought of going out in public—with people around—immediately made him nervous. “I, uh, don’t eat much,” he offered as an excuse; it wasn’t a great one but he hoped she’d buy it.

She tilted her head as she walked toward him. “That’s not all of it, is it?” So much for that; he swallowed and attempted to come up with an explanation, but she continued. “It’s alright. But just so you know, I can spot a lie from a mile away.” She winked at him and he immediately blushed. “Will you at least walk me out?”

“Of course, milady.” He offered her his arm, even through the cloak.

She looked away for a moment, a sad smile on her face; he could tell that her story, whatever it was, was likely as complicated as his own. But then she shook her head a bit and took his arm with a grin, and he escorted her out.

When they parted ways, she told him that she hoped she’d seen him sooner than his last visit. Part of him wasn’t sure that was wise, given that the Darkness was yelling at him to end her right there, but the part of him that was only a man concurred, and looked forward to their next meeting.

_ You’ll be the death of us, boy. _

“One can only hope.”

* * *

Killian didn’t visit every day; he worried that might be too intrusive. And there were some days he went and she wasn’t there, leaving him to peruse the space on his own. Something was different on each trip there, typically new flowers in bloom.

“Where do you get them all from?” he had to ask one day as they took a turn about the paths arm-in-arm.

“Uh, well, don’t judge me, but...I’ve stolen a lot of them from pirate ships,” she admitted.

“Really?”

“Yeah; it’s the only way to get the really exotic ones, like the orchids over there.”

“Doesn’t stealing from a pirate make you one yourself?” he teased.

She shrugged. “I guess. I’m kind of used to it by now; I live on the lam, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“It’s alright, love; takes one to know one, I suppose.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “What, a thief or a pirate?”

“The latter.”

“You? No way.”

“In another life, aye.”

“But you’re so...sweet.”

He laughed; that was a very nice way of describing him, he decided. “If it’s any explanation, it wasn’t by choice.”

Her voice got quiet. “Will you tell me?”

He couldn’t blame her for being curious; not many men had his years.  _ Well, Nimue lived a while, and Zoso...which you’d know if you cared. _

He ignored that and instead focused on Emma. “I’m not sure there’s a ton to tell, and it’s not very happy, but I will.” In as few words as he could manage, he told her about his mother and her passing; his father and how he sold he and his brother into servitude; how his brother finally found freedom, only to die in the service of the King’s Navy before he was able to rescue Killian from the wretched men they were enslaved to; being traded from ship to ship until he eventually landed in Blackbeard’s crew; Milah—brilliant beautiful Milah; and finally, that fateful day that took her from him, too, and brought him here. He made sure to leave out the specifics of the weapon he used, but didn’t want to deny the fact that he’d killed Rumplestiltskin.

“And that’s how I acquired this curse; like most things in my life, it was just a transaction, a passing of the responsibilities. And I...I’ve killed others, though not intentionally. Sometimes the Darkness...it has a mind of its own, and I can’t always keep it in check, which you’ve seen, unfortunately. And that’s been the situation for over a hundred years now. So...that’s it,” he concluded, probably anticlimactically. 

He was scared to look at her after divulging all that; he’d known before he delved into his story that it would probably change the way she looked at him, and not for the better, but he didn’t want to keep anything from her. She was so unlike anyone he’d ever met and he couldn’t deny the growing part of him that wanted to share everything with her. But that meant no lies and no secrecy.

So he was astonished when he finally faced her and found not anger or disgust, but tears in her eyes.

“Oh, Killian,” she said, voice as watery as her gaze, and pulled him into a hug. “I can’t believe everything you’ve gone through.”

He hesitated to reciprocate the embrace, but he did eventually; it had been so long since he’d felt one, he couldn’t help it, and her warmth made him terribly aware of how devoid of it his life had been. But he couldn’t let it linger for long; he pulled back and asked, “Aren’t you frightened of me?”

“Why would I be?” she wondered, then sniffled. 

“I...look at me. You just heard everything. I’m not...I’m not good, Emma.”

“You’ve made mistakes; who hasn’t?” He couldn’t believe how nonchalant she was about this. “But you also had to make do with life dealing you a shitty hand. And the fact that you’re trying so hard to keep the Darkness at bay...I can’t even imagine how difficult that is, but if someone wasn’t ‘good,’ whatever that means, they wouldn’t be able to.” She took a seat at one of the benches, and tugged him down next to her. “I may not have lived as long as you, but I’ve come across lots of people—some who were genuinely good, some who were truly bad, and some who said they were one but turned out to be the other. Usually, they act like they’re good but they’re really just selfish assholes. You, Killian Jones, are the first who thinks they’re not good when they really, truly are.”

He felt a welling of emotion he hadn’t felt in ages, and he had no idea how to describe it. But it wasn’t unlike how he felt the first time Milah protected him from the crew’s constant abuse; he felt...he didn’t want to say loved, but maybe he just felt like a person again.

“I’m not sure I deserve such praise, but I’m too weak to refute it,” he said, hoping she realized how much that meant to him. “Especially from someone as incredible as you.”

Emma gave him half a smile, but looked away. “Well, now it’s my turn for denial, then; I’m not some paragon of virtue, either.”

“I find that hard to believe, love.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Please don’t. Just...let me tell my story now.” She sighed, then began. “Did I mention that I was a princess?”

He was taken aback—though not altogether surprised; despite her clothing, she definitely had a regal appearance and carriage. “No, I don’t think you did, Your Highness.”

“Dammit, I knew you’d do that. I’m gonna stop you right there before you pledge your fealty or something. And emphasis on  _ was _ ; I’m not sure if I still am one.”

“What happened?”

“Maleficent happened.” Before Emma was born, there had been a prophecy; she didn’t go into the details, but apparently, to fulfill her destiny, she had to remain “light.” (“I’m still not sure what that means but I guess this garden is proof I’ve managed it.”) She herself didn’t know the details, but apparently, her parents did something to Maleficent’s child to ensure that Emma stayed on the right path. (“Who does that?” she complained, shivering.) Fast forward twenty-some years—she had an idyllic childhood and adolescence, learning everything about ruling a country from her parents, as well as how to hone her magic by the fairies. There was a less-than-honourable prince in there who broke her heart and turned her off of the idea of romantic love, but despite her parents being the epitome of it (“Actual, certified True Love, confirmed by the gods or something”), they supported her desire to rule alone.

“So life was all good, until a few months ago, when Maleficent finally decided to get her revenge; not sure why it took her 28 years, but I guess the timing is irrelevant.” ( _ My kind of witch _ , the Darkness cheered.  _ Maybe you could learn something from this story. _ ) Anyways, she storms into the castle during my confirmation—not really that important a thing; just a ceremony signalling that I’d be taking a larger role in governing—and starts ranting and raving about what my parents took from her, which I had no idea about until then. Then she threatened to put a sleeping curse on me, but my stupid parents wouldn’t let her, and told her to curse my mom. But the witch only would agree if she cursed both my parents, who agreed, even though I begged them not to.” She had to pause to wipe a tear from her eyes. “So that’s what she did, and then transformed into a dragon and flew out through the stained glass window. I tried to wake them, but...it didn’t work.” Her voice broke on the last word.

“Oh, lass,” he murmured, then pulled her close to him on instinct. He surprised himself with that, and was even more shocked when she leaned into him.

“And here I am. I fled from the court because I obviously failed at being their daughter, if my love for them isn’t true enough to wake them. So I’ve been on the run ever since, stealing to get by. I have no idea what to try next and my people probably think I’ve abandoned them...this is the only place that I have any peace.”

“I know how that feels,” he said softly. For a while, they just sat, finding respite in the quiet of the garden, save for the gentle gurgle of the fountain. Emma sniffed occasionally, but otherwise didn’t move from where she sat, her head resting on his shoulder. He hadn’t been in this position since Milah, whenever she was particularly missing her son. Just as then, he didn’t know how to offer any words of comfort, but just being there seemed to help—or, at least, he hoped it did.

“Sorry,” she said eventually and sat up. “I bet you weren’t expecting to hear a sob story today.”

“Nonsense. I’m...I’m glad you felt you could share it with me.”

“Same here,” she answered. “God, here I am blubbering when you’re the one with the sadder story.”

“It’s not a contest; like I said, everyone has their burdens.”

“Wish there was a way we could lighten each other’s loads.”

“Aye,” he agreed with a sad smile. “I’m afraid your magical knowledge might be better than mine, though.”

“Maybe, but it hasn’t gotten me anywhere. There wasn’t a whole lot in my education about evil curses. Sorry,” she added when she noticed his slight wince at her choice of words. “But even the fairies don’t know much—they say it’s not their ‘brand of magic’ or whatever. And I’m not sure where else to look.”

_ Oh, but you do. _

“I do,” he realized, agreeing with the Darkness out loud. This might be the first time in his history that being the Dark One was actually useful. He told Emma, “There’s a library at the Dark Castle; it’s protected with magic, but I have to imagine there’s something in there that could be of use.”

“Really?” Her eyes grew wide at the prospect. “Can you take me there?”

“Uh…” The prospect of taking here there seemed like a terrible idea. He’d gladly bring the books to her, but there was a reason he didn’t like spending much time at the castle. “I’d feel safer if you didn’t. It’s...not a pleasant place, and it’s not that I don’t trust you—it’s that I don’t trust anyone else, and you, my dear, will no doubt garner attention on such a journey.”

She crossed her arms and gave him an unamused look. “I’m too pretty to go—that’s it?”

“Not all of it, but...part.”

“What’s the rest?”

He took a deep breath. “I don’t know what effect it’ll have on me,” he confessed. The castle had dark magic in its very mortar; the whispers always grew louder there, the magic humming in his blood even stronger. “Should something go awry, I’d feel better knowing you were far from there...from me.”

Emma pursed her lips. “I don’t like it, but...I get it.” He sighed in relief. “Is there anything I can do in return?”

“Be here when I get back?” He hadn’t expected his voice to sound so small and childlike, but now that she knew what his life had been like, hopefully she’d understand his concern.

“Of course. When do you think that’ll be?”

“It takes a few days to get there, so..give me a week?”

“You mean you don’t just poof there?”

He bit his lip. “I try to use the magic as little as possible. It...it helps,” he explained, hoping she’d be able to fill in the blank.

She nodded in understanding. “Okay then; I’ll be here.”

There wasn’t much else to do, then, but say their goodbyes and for him to head on his way. He’d need to stop at home for a few things, but he had no other reason to delay the journey—save for his growing reluctance to leave Emma’s presence. As had become usual, he escorted her out, but she stopped before they reached the door.

“I guess this is where I wish you good luck,” she said.

“I appreciate that,” he replied, blushing.  _ What a lovesick fool _ , the Darkness gagged.

She paused for a moment, but then went up on her tiptoes and placed a light kiss on his cheek. Again he felt that spark at the contact he’d felt the first time, and the buzzing it prompted in his veins energized him for the task ahead.

When she fell back on her heels, he could tell she was biting back a giggle, likely at his slack-jawed reaction. “I’ll see you in a week. Take care,” she farewelled, and headed out.

“You too,” he said as he watched her leave, his fingers coming up to the place where her lips had just been.

He let it soak in for one more moment before setting out, with the hopes of the same thing greeting him on return.


	5. I Don't Think I Can Keep This Monster In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is dedicated to the AMAZING optomisticgirl on the occasion of her birthday and you should go read all of her fics because she's freaking incredible!!!
> 
> title comes from "Gunning Down Romance" by Savage Garden

_ Love is a weakness, you know. _

“Maybe; maybe not.”

_ She’s not worth it—all this effort. Just take what she can give us and move on. _

“I make my own decisions, thank you very much.”

_ For now. _

He hated how ominously they said that, but there wasn’t much of anything else for him to focus on during the three-day journey to the castle. The one perk to not needing rest was that he could travel through the night, cutting down the time it took to get there, but that meant no respite from the Darkness and its incessant taunts. He’d packed a book to try to read as he went, but after falling over three sets of tree roots, that idea was abandoned. (He didn’t remember there being so many last time; had it really been that long since his last trek to the castle?)

Also, he wasn’t sure it was love—not yet. He’d only truly made her acquaintance a few weeks ago; it seemed too soon to be tossing that word around, especially given her opinion on the matter. He couldn’t deny the affection he felt for her, which grew each time they met, but it was so different from the only other time he’d been in love that he wasn’t sure it was the same feeling. 

His relationship with Milah had been odd, he knew in hindsight, but it was real. He needed someone to look out for him; she needed someone soft and gentle in contrast to her sharp edges. Despite what the crew might have thought him capable of, they did lead a passionate physical relationship as much as they did a supportive emotional one. She was the first person to see him as more than a slave; he was the first to treat her like a lady and more than just a housewife.

It had taken time for their relationship to develop, as most do. It wasn’t the grand, sweeping tales he read about, but how many are, really?

With Emma, it was nothing like that. They were kindred souls, certainly, and he couldn’t explain how or why he was so drawn to her. But he’d changed so much since Milah—or, rather, the Darkness has changed him. Was he even capable of love anymore?

_ What do you need that for when you have all the power you could ever want? _

“Bugger off,” he muttered, carefully stepping over yet another protruding root. 

“Well, that’s rude, considering I hadn’t even said anything.”

He froze in place at the unfamiliar female voice, eyes scanning in every direction for its source and finding nothing. He turned around, but still only heard the heavy swish of his leather jacket around his legs. “Who’s there? Show yourself!” The Darkness covered up the fear in his voice, but he still felt it.

“Up here,” the voice said again, sounding annoyed.

His eyes jumped toward it, and hovering above his head was a woman—a very tiny one, with equally miniature wings keeping her aloft. “You’re a fairy,” he gasped.

“Yeah, what of it?” She darted closer to him, nearly in his face—close enough for him to notice her tiny green dress and blonde hair. “Planning on taking my power, too?”

He was taken aback, and blinked a few times in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

A bright light flashed, and suddenly, the little woman wasn’t so little—she looked no different than the average woman, though still on the short side; even with her hair piled on top of her head and the heels on her boots, she couldn’t get past Killian’s nose.

“Don’t play coy with me, Dark One,” she threatened, pressing the tip of her green wand under his chin. “We know you’ve been spending time with Emma. What else could the Dark One want with the Savior but to take her magic and corrupt her to save his own arse?”

_ Glad someone gets it. If only you did, too. _

He ignored that, choosing to respond to the fairy instead. “I don’t want to hurt Emma at all; I only want to help her—I promise you.”

“Yeah, right. The Dark One never does anything for free. What is your price going to be—her magic? Her heart?” She let her wand drift down to his chest, hovering over where his organ was probably decaying. Then she leaned in, and her voice dropped. “Or something even more vile?”

A defensive rage was building inside—how dare she assume the worst of him? “I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, fairy, but I can assure you—none of it’s true. I’m not like the other Dark Ones; surely, you can see that, given that this is my first encounter with any of your kind in the century I’ve held the title.”

The fairy clenched her jaw as she glared; he had her there. “You may think you have her best interests in mind, but I’ve seen how darkness can corrupt. I’m watching you. You better be careful.”

“Believe me, I’m trying.” He hoped she heard the sincerity in his admission.

Her expression did soften a bit, but not much; from the way Emma had described them, he had no clue the sprites could be so menacing.

“Just don’t fuck it up,” she cautioned, then disappeared into a cloud of green glitter.

He coughed a bit, some of the glitter getting in his mouth and the rest clinging to his jacket (and refusing to brush off). But, given that there was no other sight of the fairy or any others like her, he set off again.

_ Annoying little things, aren’t they? Pretty good on toast, though. _

He groaned, but then tuned out as the Darkness ranted about the fairies, instead mulling over something else she’d said: Emma was the Savior, whatever that meant. It must have something to do with the destiny she’d mentioned, though he had no idea why the fairy thought he’d want to pull her away from that. He didn’t even know what it was. He just wanted to help her get her parents back; and if she could help free him of his own curse, then that would just be an extra benefit. And if not, then he’d take as much of her company as she granted.

Finally, after three days of ceaseless walking, the air cooled and the sky grew gray and cloudy. Even the forest seemed to lose its color as the Dark Castle loomed into view, all black stone and dangerous edges meant to keep mortals out and its own sick magic in. The Vault wasn’t far from here, but Killian hadn’t been there since he first emerged from its depths, and he was fine with it staying that way.

The gates were secure on the other side of the stone bridge that led to the castle entrance; the moat was murky and stagnant, with fishbones floating on the surface and a general sludgy appearance that always turned his stomach. He didn’t pause in front of the gate, like most would—there was no guard to open it, anyways (though Killian had made sure to bury the bones he found in the tower long ago). Instead, the air shimmered as he approached and the gate dissolved, letting him walk through, and then solidified again after he passed.

Every inch of his body buzzed once he was inside the walls. The constant chorus of voices got louder, singing with the dark magic that was humming within him. No matter how many times he came here, he never got used to it, and if he hadn’t gotten so good at keeping himself away from the edge of the void, just being here would send him over it.

The tall wooden doors opened slowly at his approach, and the long-dormant torches that lined the great hall lit on their own. The entire keep was still filled with shadows, but the torches helped a bit.

They lit the way to the library—the only place in the castle he liked, even if he’d done his best to move the more innocuous tomes out of it and into his home. It wasn’t as light and airy as the one he’d built, but it had the same slightly musty smell of pages and bindings that he enjoyed. 

Many of the shelves had large empty spaces where he’d relocated their contents, but in the back was a set of shelves behind glass doors that he’d never touched: the books on magic. The hinges should have been rusty and the doors covered in dust, but they’d been just as preserved as the rest of the library, and under the extra protection of another layer of magical locks that only he could open. Sometimes he wondered which Dark One cast that enchantment, but the less he thought about the history of the curse, the better. 

_ That goes all the way back to Nimue, FYI. As do most of those books. Just so you know.  _

“Thanks,” he said emotionlessly, too worried about what came next to really listen. He had to assume temptation like he’d never faced before lay behind those glass doors. “Here goes,” he muttered to himself, needing to hear the motivation out loud, and he stepped forward to pull open the cabinet. 

Whatever he expected to happen—didn’t. Nothing did, actually. He expected...well, he wasn’t sure, but something—perhaps bats flying out or the screaming of the undead. It was rather anticlimactic.

They didn’t look much different than the other books; their fabric covers came in varying colors and the gold leaf on the spines was in mostly good shape. The smell was fairly similar, too. But he was still wary. 

Hesitantly, he reached toward a book on the second shelf, promisingly titled  _ Curses _ . 

_ No, that’s not the one you want. _

“It’s not?” He really didn’t want to muck this up. 

_ Well, maybe; it is a good one. But there’s so many others you can have fun with, too! _

“I’m not here to have fun.”

_ Are you sure? Because this one here _ —a narrow blue book on the top shelf began to rattle in place— _ this one can show you how to control the weather. Imagine that, being able to control storms? _

The memory began to play in his head:

He remembered the storm clearly; even docked, the ship was tossed from side to side by the churning waves and lashing winds. He was eternally grateful the captain had decided to stay in port rather than attempt an early start on their next job—no sailor was good enough to stay afloat in this violent squall. He could only hope and pray that Liam’s ship was nowhere near, and since there was no chance of him sleeping on his rocking hammock, spent the whole night praying for his brother’s safety.

News the next morning proved it was all for nought; a pair of wave-beaten sailors washed ashore the next morning along with the remnants of a ship, the  _ Jewel of the Realm _ —where Liam was a midshipman. Those two were the only survivors.

“No,” Killian barked. “That’s not why—“

_ Oooh, or there’s this one!  _ This time, a thick tome near the floor began to slide out.  _ This one has the cure for every disease. _

He closed his eyes this time, but he could still see it behind his lids:

The wracking coughs that rattled his mother’s bones shook him equally to his core. He may have still been a wee lad, but he knew what that sound meant, and it was nothing good. Nor was the wheezing, raspy way she was breathing, or the cloth she kept bringing to her mouth and taking away with more red spots on it. If there was a cure, it was far out of the family’s budget.

“Killian, my sweet boy,” she told him, her voice straining even to whisper. “I love you so much; keep your good heart—always.”

“I love you, too, Mama,” he sobbed, as another violent attack of coughing took hold and then—worse—stopped, and her with it.

He was wiping a tear from his eye as the Darkness continued its cruel game. 

_ No, no, no—this is it. _ A red book fell from the middle shelf, falling open to a page with a hand-drawn border of hearts.  _ This one can make anyone fall in love with you.  _

“No,” he gasped. 

The scene the Darkness played was hazy and smudged, but he could see himself and Emma, arm in arm in the garden with smiles on their faces—but something was off, like the grins were forced. 

It morphed to them touching, kissing, caressing in an indeterminate state of dress. But everything was too dark, too heavy—too obviously an illusion.

He didn’t want to see any further. He didn’t want that at all—if it wasn’t real, it wasn’t right. “That’s enough,” he commanded, and the vision dissolved. 

_ Suit yourself.  _

The Darkness went uncharacteristically silent as he moved through the books, searching as quickly as possible for anything that might help, including the first book. There were some written in foreign languages and others so old that the ink was faded, but he did find a handful that held potential. Hopefully, Emma knew enough more about these kinds of things than he did to make sense of it. 

All told, he was probably only there for an hour or so—much less time than the days it took to get there, but the shorter his visit, the better. As quickly as he’d arrived, he just as hastily closed the cabinets and left the library. 

He was nearly out the door when something in another room grabbed his attention, prickling that built-in magic detector he’d eventually gotten used to. It was like...someone was there. 

Given that he’d never explored the castle—the magic had always led him right to the library—he had no idea what lay behind the doors he was now pushing open. More torches lit inside as he did, but it was still dank and musty, and he could see the thick drapes that covered the far wall. And one was moving. 

“Who goes there?” He called out in a warning tone. How on earth did an intruder get in? And how would he face them?

_ Trespassing equals murder—that’s how you handle them.  _

Killian doubted he had that in him, but still approached the shifting curtain. Once he was close enough, he prayed he had the element of surprise on his side as he yanked it back, revealing—nothing. Again. Perhaps he’d read too many gothic novels over the years. 

All that he uncovered was a window, partly open and likely by the strong winds coming off the cliffs. There were no scuffs or other marks of a forced entry or escape, and even if there were, the potential thief likely would have perished on the rocks several hundred meters below, or drowned in the crashing waves—which were not unlike the violent sea at his home. Clearly, the ocean had it out for the Darkness in all places. 

With the crisis averted, Killian latched the window and replaced the drape over it, then began to leave again. 

Until something on the other end of the room caught his eye—something sparkling. Several somethings, actually. As he neared, it appeared to be a jewel case, with all sorts of baubles on display—tiaras, necklaces, broaches, even some unfinished opal still running through rock. 

_ Really? All we had to do to get your attention was put something shiny in front of you? Goodness, you really are a child.  _

But what really caught his eye was a large pendant centered in front. It’s setting was square-ish, with metal rays streaming away from the stone—which by itself was impressive, almost too large to wear. But it was a clear, pure color, and perfectly cut to reflect both that fact and any beam of light. 

_ Thinking of a gift for your girlfriend? _

“No,” he immediately replied, blush rising on his cheeks like he was a schoolboy with a crush.

_ No? Just imagine how stunning that would look on her neck—how she’d grin at you in response; maybe even more.  _

He wouldn’t expect that, but Emma did deserve something as beautiful as she was. She’d once mentioned having to sell family heirlooms to get by; maybe this could make up for that. “Am I allowed to?”

_ Of course; it’s your castle, so it’s your stuff. Go ahead—take it.  _

The case unlocked with a tiny click as he carefully pulled it open. The gem was calling to him now, begging to be picked up and taken somewhere else, somewhere it’d be appreciated. He wrapped his hand around it and lifted it out. 

But his extra sense went off immediately, his instincts sounding alarms—this item was drenched in black magic. His veins burned as he held it, until he couldn’t hold on any longer and threw it back in the case, slamming the door shut so hard he feared the glass would shatter. 

“What kind of bloody trick is this?” He yelled in the silence. 

The Darkness just cackled in glee. 

“You led me here on purpose, didn’t you? What, to trick me into hurting her?”

_ Guilty _ . 

Enough; he’d had enough of this dark castle and it’s cold walls and bloody magic. He waved his hand and transported back to the forest. 

_ Funny that you hate this, until it’s useful. _

“I don’t care,” he seethed. 

_ Yes you do. And the sooner you admit it, the easier it’ll be.  _

Things fell eerily quiet as he marched towards home, but keeping a brisk pace helped him calm his racing heart. But the sun had fallen from noon high to sunset by the time he reached any semblance of peace, and the stars were bright overhead when he finally relaxed. 

The sad truth of it was that he’d been relying on the Darkness far more than he cared to admit—not just what happened in the castle, but so many times over the past century. He’d taken it for granted that he healed from injury and never fell ill, and that he had all the time in the world in front of him to pursue whatever he wanted. He thought he’d spent most of his time fighting the Darkness’s advances—but had he really? Or had he just been accepting it more and more as time went on?

Early the next morning, he stopped at a spring for a drink of water that he really didn’t need, but the cool water was refreshing down his throat and on his face. He sat hunched over the small pond for a long moment afterward, watching as the rippling water relaxed to its previous still state.

When it did, he was faced with his reflection—but not the one he wanted. Rumpelstiltskin was staring back at him again. His leathery face wore that creepy grin, and there was a knowing look in his eyes that Killian found far too upsetting. Worse, it was what he fully expected to find mirrored back, and he wasn’t sure what that meant.

“ _ Oh, you know...you’ve always known, dearie _ ,” Rumple taunted.

Briefly, anger flared in Killian and he slammed his hook into the water, disrupting the image, and he stormed back off, nearly forgetting the sack of books in his haste to get away.

He headed back to grab them, pulling the sack up to his shoulder with a jerk, and then turned to continue on his way—but nearly ran straight into someone.

“I saw all that, you know.” The green fairy was standing in front of him.

He sighed and hung his head. “Of course you did.”

“Hey—I just wanted to tell you that I believe you, okay?” There was still a hint of annoyance in her tone, but he could tell she was being sincere. “Honestly, I’m not sure I could have said no to that temptation. I don’t know what all it is you’re going through, but...I’m on your side.”

He looked up, surprised. “Seriously?”

She nodded. “There’s not a whole lot I can do to help you—fairy dust and dark magic don’t exactly work well together—but I can see how hard you’re working, and I know your heart is in the right place with Emma. So, if you need another ally, you’ve got one.”

He blinked and swallowed a few times; a complete stranger was supporting him? Frankly, he was suffering from emotional whiplash after his revelations from what had happened at the castle and now this, so if he got a little teary, that was why.

“That means more than you know.”

“No, I do,” she said with a slight smirk. “Believe it or not, I’m older than you.”

He snorted a bit at that. “What, are you my fairy godmother or something?”

“If I was, I’d have done a piss-poor job of things. Don’t let the past dictate your future, mkay?”

“I can try.”

“Good.” She reached out to squeeze his arm through the leather of his jacket; he felt his magic react a bit at the contact, but not violently—that must be what she’d been talking about. “Oh, and I almost forgot—the name’s Tinkerbelle.”

“Killian.”

“I know,” she said with a wink. “Take care, Killian—and take care of Emma.”

“I plan to.”

“She does, too.” Again, he was blushing; it still amazed him that he could, as old as he was. “G’bye!” And with a flash, she was tiny again and flitting away.

He was truly at odds with himself now. The fact that a fairy had put her trust in him meant he must be doing something right, but he could still feel the darkness humming in his veins, only amplified by her presence. There was really only one solution: he needed to get back to the garden, as quickly as possible.

He’d never walked quite so fast in his life as he did over the next day, sprinting through trees and over streams until the familiar walls of the garden came into view that evening. Despite days in the forest, he felt like a drowning man finally coming up for air, so he took several long, deep gulps, eyes closed to savor the feeling. 

“Killian!” His eyes flew open at Emma’s address. “I had no idea you’d be back this fast.” She was kneeling in one of the flower beds, work gloves on and a spade and trowel nearby, as she sat in front of a patch of freshly turned soil. “Come here! I want to show you something.”

“Of course.” He hurried over to her while she stripped off her gloves, and when he got closer, she cupped her hands over the dirt. 

“Okay, watch.” Nothing happened at first, but then those dancing balls of light that comprised her magic began to twirl in the air before burrowing in the earth. Almost immediately, tiny green shoots popped up, and continued growing rapidly into a small, wide-leafed shrub; Emma guided the growth with the movement of her hands, magically pulling it up and bringing it to life. 

Killian saw the buds on the plant sprout and then bloom in a matter of seconds, revealing dense, rose-like blossoms of bright pink petals all over it that released a light, sweet scent. 

“It’s a middlemist,” she explained, wiping her hands on her trousers once it was done. “Alright, now, take off your glove,” Emma instructed, standing up next to him. “And then pick one.”

“What?” What was she thinking—did she want him to destroy it, after she’d just brought it to life? “Emma, you know what’ll happen; I don’t—I couldn’t—”

“Okay, okay—calm down,” she told him softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I just want to try something; I tried to place a protection spell on it. Middlemist are extremely rare and have magical properties, so I thought if maybe I amplified them, then you could touch it without killing it.”

He was honestly speechless—she’d created this incredible thing of beauty...for of him? That didn’t seem possible, or right, and yet—here it was. He looked down at it, if only because he couldn’t take any more of her hopeful, proud expression without either crying or doing something equally rash and emotional. The plant appeared to be glowing; everything in the garden had its own sort of incandescence as a result of Emma’s magic, but this one was positively luminous. He could feel the still-sparking blackness in his veins react as he stood by it.

“Go on,” Emma encouraged, giving him a supportive squeeze.

Well, if she thought he could, then he could at least try. Wordlessly, he complied with her request, bringing his hand to his mouth and tugging the leather glove off his fingers with his teeth before pocketing it. He knelt by the bush cautiously, and then reached toward it. But even inches away, he could see the reaction in the veins of his trembling hand and pulled back.

“I don’t want to harm it,” he said quietly.

_ Well, I do _ , the Darkness complained.

“Here, then.” Emma bent down next to him and grabbed a stem, pulling until it was broken off. Then she turned to him and held the bloom out. “Try this?”

He swallowed and prepared for disappointment. Gingerly, he reached a finger out and brushed an outermost petal. It was velvety soft under his touch and—to his shock—didn’t wither away. He gasped in disbelief.

“Told ya,” Emma said, smirking, green eyes alight.

A slow smile was taking over his face, he could feel, as he took the stem from her. And nothing happened. He brought it to his nose to inhale, the petals tickling his nose and making him grin. When he pulled it back, he noticed that the blossom had wilted a little, but nothing compared to what usually happened.

“Thank you, Emma—thank you so much. It’s...amazing. You’re amazing”

She shrugged nonchalantly, but her cheeks resembled the middlemist in color. “It’s nothing; I’m just glad I could do this for you, especially after you went to all the trouble to help me. I should be thanking you.”

_ Yes she should _ , snarled the Darkness.  _ And more! _

“No, it’s fine,” Killian said, though he wasn’t really sure who he was replying to. But he picked up the sack of books, careful not to crush the flower still in his hand, and held it out to Emma. “I just hope there’s something useful in there.”

Her arm gave out a bit at the heft of the bag when she took it from him, so she set it on a nearby bench and looked in. “Wow,” she raved, pulling out the top one. “I’ve never seen books like this.”

_ Poor thing, so deprived—now she’ll get to see what real magic is like! _

“Be careful,” Killian warned as she started to open the cover. She halted at his voice, then looked at him, confused. “Just...those have been in the dark castle for a long, long time; I don’t know what’s hidden in them.”

“I will,” she answered solemnly. “And don’t forget—I know how to feel for the worst of it. This one feels...okay,” she assessed, and then opened the cover.

A warm breeze came through the garden as she did, blowing dust off one of the first pages. It began to swirl in the air, dancing in a spiral and then spreading out as it took a form. But Emma didn’t notice it. Killian didn’t doubt in her powers, but whatever this was, it was invisible to her.

And a moment later, he realized why, as the dust took the shape and visage of Rumpelstiltskin. “ _ Oh, it’s so nice to be free of your head _ ,” he hissed.

Killian wanted to tell it to go away, to leave them alone, but he didn’t want to alarm Emma.

“ _ And why not? Afraid your precious princess will think you’re crazy and cast you away? _ ” The phantom drew closer; it wasn’t entirely corporeal—Killian could see through it—but that didn’t make it any less terrifying and real. “ _ She won’t fall in love with you then, will she? _ ”

“Stop it,” he said as quietly as he could muster.

“Killian, did you say something?” Emma asked from behind him, but he didn’t move from his place between her and the ghost.

“ _ Oh, looks like it’s too late for that, then, _ ” Rumple tutted. “ _ May as well seal the deal, then. What’s your price going to be? _ ”

Price? What price?

“ _ All magic comes with one _ ,” the specter explained in a low voice. “ _ She needs to pay _ .”

“No. I won’t do it,” Killian bit back.

“Is someone there?” Emma’s hand was on Killian’s shoulder and she was peering around him, at what he assumed was empty space to her.

“ _ If you don’t make her pay one _ ,” the former Dark One started, sauntering closer, “ _ we will _ .”

“Leave it alone.”

“Killian, is everything okay?” Emma sounded worried now, and the lights in the garden began to flicker—but he couldn’t tell if it was in reaction to her magic or his. There was definitely a growing static charge between them, though.

The image of the reptilian man was fading, but his voice was not. “ _ Alright then—you leave me no choice. _ ” And then he burst back into dust.

This time, the tiny dust storm was much more direct, and barreled straight for Killian, hitting him in the chest. Everything around him grew dark and dusky as he buckled over, and then it felt like he was a passenger in his own body, watching as it stood straight and turned to Emma.

“ _ All magic comes with a price _ ,” he said, but it wasn’t quite his voice—it was lower, more sinister, and he could see Emma’s eyes widen in fright.

“Killian? Are you alright?”

“ _ Perfectly fine, love _ ,” he leered. “ _ Best I’ve ever been, actually—and you can make things even better _ .”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”

“ _ Nothing, darling _ ,” he purred. “ _ Just making sure fair’s fair. You have what you need; now it’s my turn _ .”

“Your  _ turn _ ?” Emma was getting angry and backing away from him—and rightly so. He wanted to tell her to run far, far away. “I thought that’s what the middlemist was for.”

“ _ Is that all your parents’ lives are worth to you? _ ” He stepped back into her space, relishing in the mixture of fear and confusion on her face. 

“Killian, what is happening? Talk to me.” Her tone was soft and she placed her hands on his shoulders, worry etched in the furrow of her brow. Her eyes were darting between his, looking for something; he hated to think what she was finding. 

A  _ thump-thump _ sounded in his ears, louder than almost anything else, and his eyes followed the sound to Emma’s chest.  _ Her heart! Her heart would be the perfect price, _ the Darkness called from within, and he felt his hand start to move of its own volition. 

“Uh, eyes up here, buddy.” Emma’s tone was annoyed but her expression said she was still confused. “Hey—where did you go?” 

“ _ I’m right here _ .” Inside, he was screaming it, even though the Darkness said it as seductively as possible. 

She placed a hand on his cheek, and for a moment, the world cleared as he leaned into her palm; he hadn’t felt that kind of caress in so, so long. His hand was still reaching toward her heart, but he was able to wrest away just enough control to grab her forearm where it rested on his chest, anchoring himself to her in the only way he could find in the moment.

His vision darkened again almost immediately, and the electric tension that had been building began to spark at their point of contact. His hand burned and Emma winced, but he couldn’t let go—the Darkness was enjoying itself too much, and Killian couldn’t tell where its euphoria ended and his own disgust started.

Until, finally, the mounting pressure exploded, sending them both flying away from each other. Killian was thrown against one of the walls, falling in a heap into a thorny rose bush that scratched at the exposed skin of his face and chest.

He couldn’t be worried about himself, though, and as soon as he had even a modicum of his senses back, he jumped out of the now-dead bush to check on Emma: as he could see all too clearly now, she’d landed in an adjacent flower bed, thankfully not far from where they’d been standing, and was sitting up, a hand pressed to the back of her head.

“Emma, are you—” he started, but the frightened, wide-eyed look she gave him when he spoke made him stop. Instinctively, she put her hand between them, and he could see the glow of her magic in her palm ready to strike at him if needed.

It was just like when that little boy stared at him in terror all those years ago, but worse: this was the one person who hadn’t run from or left him in his life, and now the Darkness had turned even her against him. How had he let that happen? Or was his own control over this malevolence waning?

Regardless, it meant one thing: he needed to leave—now.

“My…my sincerest apologies,” he told her as his heart broke again. “Goodbye.” 

He let the magic carry him home because he couldn’t take the fear on her face anymore.

The balcony beckoned as soon as he arrived. He could still feel and see the inky black magic pulsing in his veins and had a rage building in his core, though he didn’t know what to do with it.

“Haven’t you done enough already?” he shouted into the night. “You’ve taken everything from me; why her, too?”

_ To remind you. _

“Remind me? Of what? How you killed the only other woman I’ve ever loved? How everyone else has abandoned me?”

_ Precisely. You don’t need anyone; why would you...when you have us? _

“I hate you.”

_ Keep telling yourself that. _

His anger finally found an outlet in the window behind him; he smashed his hook through it and watched as the shards of glass fell, jagged and sharp, on the wood floor inside. But before they could completely clatter, they paused midair and reversed their trajectory, piecing themselves back together until the pane was whole and seamless again.

He stared at it in confusion for a long moment until he realized his hand was outstretched toward it, fingers moving as he fixed the window without thought.

“What the hell?”

_ Don’t look at us; that was all you. _

The crashing waves below him were the perfect noise to that revelation. “I—I didn’t; I couldn’t—”

_ Oh, but you did. _

“That’s impossible.”

_ Clearly, it’s not. For someone who hates this so much, you’re really coming to rely on it, aren’t you? _

“No.”

_ Suit yourself. But we certainly won’t complain when you give in. _

With a yell, he destroyed the window again. It took conscious effort, but he made sure it stayed that way before he headed inside.

On the floor, withered but still pink, was the middlemist bloom—a perfect, beautiful, depressing symbol of his life right now.

The Darkness had more than an edge over him. What the hell was he going to do?


	6. Let me be the one you call / When darkness is upon your door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from "Crash and Burn" by Savage Garden, which fits this story way too perfectly
> 
> NOTE: SLIGHT TRIGGER WARNING—very very vague mentions of attempted assault in the past. It doesn't go into any detail, but I figured I should put this warning up to be safe.

The first winter storm arrived three days after Killian’s battle with the Darkness—after he last saw Emma. 

Three achingly long days during which he had to expend more effort than he would have liked to keep the dark magic back, though its appearance never faded from his veins. Three days where he had to force himself from going back to the garden, but the memory of the frightened way Emma had stared at him kept him home.

But the snow forced Killian to repair the window. He tried to do it by hand, but just kept cutting himself on the broken glass and couldn’t seem to fit the pieces together properly—he just ended up smearing his blackish blood on them. He fixed it with magic before he even realized what he was doing.

_ Now wasn’t that so much easier? _

“Bugger off.”

_ You’ve been telling me that for decades and it hasn’t happened; when will it sink in? _

“Never.”

_ And just how do you plan on stopping me now? _ it sneered.  _ Emma won’t go near you. _

“Don’t you dare say her name to me!” he snapped.

_ Emma, Emma, Emma, Emma, Emma… _

Her name was echoing off the wooden walls of the cottage and reverberating in his skull as the Darkness sing-songed and cackled. Placing his hands over his ears did nothing, nor did curling in on himself where he stood in his great room—not that he suspected such instinctive human reactions would do much against an unnatural onslaught like this.

It felt like his brain was being rent in two, until he couldn’t handle the attack anymore. “Silence!” he shouted, so loud (or so amplified by magic) that the mirror above the hearth shattered and a set of bookshelves collapsed .

To his shock, the Darkness complied, but he swore he could almost hear its smugness as he magically repaired the mirror; he had to stop himself from doing the same with the bookcase.

He’d just started stacking the books and assessing the damage when he heard an even stranger noise: a knock on the door. That had never happened before—he’d made sure that the path to his home was as hidden and hard to traverse as possible. So, either this person was terribly lost, or...a chill went up his spine at the thought of what malevolence might cause a person to try to find him.

He left the books to their chaos on the floor and cautiously went to answer the door, suddenly wishing he’d thought to install windows on this side of the house, or at least a peephole.

_ Ask and ye shall receive _ . Without effort, a tiny, glass-filled hole appeared on the door. He sighed that it had happened unconsciously, but was too concerned to care much and peered through it.

Then his heart truly stopped: it was Emma.

“Killian? Are you there?” she called, and he could tell she was about to knock again; knowing her, she wouldn’t leave until she talked to him one way or the other. He wouldn’t put it past her to somehow get onto the balcony and sneak in that way. No, he needed to face her head-on—though why she was even here after what happened, he had no idea.

As loudly as he could, he unlatched the deadbolt on the door and pulled the rusty hinges open.

To his shock, she grinned when she saw him. “Hi!” she greeted cheerily, her face alight—although he did notice her eyes dart briefly to the space behind him as she pulled off the hood of her thick brown winter cloak.

“H-hello,” he replied, unsure, and feeling very much like cornered prey. “Emma, what are you doing here? Why; how?”

“You dropped this,” she explained and nodded at the object he just noticed floating in front of her: his glove. “It was a pretty easy tracking spell to find you, even if the hike wasn’t.”

The glove floated towards him, and he took it out of the air. There was a tiny spark as her magic faded out once it came in contact with him.

She didn’t wait for him to answer before continuing. “I figured you’d take some time to cool off before coming back, but then when you didn’t, I realized I was going to have to come to you.”

“You…” He blinked as he tried to process it, but all he could say was, “...Why?” There was no understanding it. “Emma, I very nearly killed you; I had little to no control of that situation. How...how can you stand to be near me?”

Her shoulders slumped a bit. “Not gonna lie—I was pretty scared in the moment,” she told him, glancing down—almost looking ashamed. “But you seemed just as upset, if not more, once you came back to yourself. Whatever the Darkness does, I know that’s not you.”

A pit formed in his stomach. “I wish I was as certain of that as you are,” he admitted.

“Hey,” she said, somewhat sharply, commanding his attention back from his self-loathing. “You’re a good man, Killian,” she affirmed, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. “And there’s something I want to do.” She swallowed, then barreled on. “I’m here to ask you out; to dinner, or something.”

His jaw dropped. He certainly wouldn’t complain that she still wished to spend time with him, but the fact that she wanted to boggled him. And yet, all he could reply with was, “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you out?” (Had social mores changed that much in the time since he’d been removed from society?)

“Should have known you’d be old-fashioned, given your age,” she teased with a smirk. (Apparently, they had.) “Come on; I know the perfect place. It’s not too crowded, but just enough that no one will bother us. What do you say?”

As with anything she asked him, he knew he couldn’t deny her. “Alright,” he said. “Let me grab my cloak.”

“Not your jacket?”

Her reaction surprised him a bit. “No; should I wear that instead?”

“It’s up to you. I just think it’s a pretty fantastic jacket.”

_ What do you know? She does have good taste, despite her interest in you.  _

“Jacket it is, then. Just give me a moment.” His sense of chivalry was telling him to invite her in while he fetched the garment from the bedroom, but the sailor didn’t want her to see the mess. So he settled on leaving the door open and moving with haste. 

As he slipped the leather on in the privacy of his little-used quarters, he realized that it was probably for the best to have his armor on if he was going to be around people. 

_ Not that it did much good the last time.  _

“Behave. Please.”

_ We’ll see.  _

He rejoined her quickly, locked the door behind them, and turned back to her. “Lead the way, love.”

She smiled, took him by the arm, and headed off. It was slow going at first—even he struggled sometimes to get through the rocky outcrops that naturally hid his home, but that was why he’d chosen this spot in the first place. Eventually, though, they were on more even terrain, and Emma struck up conversation.

“The books have been incredibly helpful—thank you again, so much.”

“I’m glad to hear that. There haven’t been any further, uh, issues?”

“No,” she confirmed, a bit solemnly. “I...I had one of the fairies help me make sure nothing like that would happen again.”

“Good. Was it Tink?”

She looked at him almost incredulously. “Yeah; how’d you know?”

“She...may have sought me out during my journey to and from the castle.”

“Oh my god; so much of our conversation makes sense now. I can’t believe she’d meddle like that.”

“She’s just looking out for you, love. It’s understandable, really, given...what I am.”

“Well, you definitely won her over. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

“Aye, she hinted at as much,” he said, blushing.

She gave him a sideways glance-smirk combination that suggested there was something he was missing from the story.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just...has anyone ever told you you’re adorable?”

He was sure he was now as pink as the sky above the presently setting sun. It had fallen completely by the time they got to the nearest town, and the lamplighters were at their task, illuminating the streets. Killian had watched this town grow and change over the years, and he had to admit that the streetlamps were by far the best invention he’d seen.

The tavern Emma was headed to was one with which he was fairly well-acquainted. More than once, he’d gone into town and found a dark, quiet corner of a tavern to perch for the night. It made him feel less disconnected from the world as he sipped on weak ale and dined on hearty stew. He tipped well, he stayed out of trouble, and he didn’t leave an impression, though some perhaps thought it odd that he kept his hood so low over his face. But his gold was worth more than anyone’s curiosity, he supposed.

Emma had the same approach; once they were inside, she slipped off her cloak and led him to a secluded table that he’d sat at many times. Near the bar, some Navy men on shore leave were clearly enjoying their first satisfying meal in months; on the other side of the main room, pirates were deep into their bottles and either gambling or whoring—or both.

A waitress wandered over from that side of the room, hair and skirts askew. “What’ll it be?”

“Ale and stew, please, ma’am,” he said politely. Thankfully, this part of the tavern was too dark for her to really see him.

Emma asked, “Stew for me, too, and a bottle of rum, two glasses.”

The waitress nodded and scurried off.

“You drink rum?” Killian wondered aloud.

“Yeah; don’t you, Mister Pirate?”

“No. I’m allergic; never touched the stuff.”

“Never?”

“Well, once,” he admitted. “I was young and some of the crew gave it to me; said it’d ‘help me be a man’ or something. I’d only had a few shots before it came right back up.”

Emma chuckled. “Yeah, I don’t think you’re allergic—I think you just had too much. How old were you?”

“Twelve, maybe.”

“Yeah. You’re having some of this.”

She poured out two portions when the waitress returned with their order and handed him one before holding her own aloft. 

“To breaking curses.”

“I can drink to that.” He lightly tipped his small cup against hers, then watched with no small amount of awe as she tossed it back, then licked her lips after. Already, he was feeling a bit flushed, and he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol.

She set her glass down and gave him a daring smile. “Your turn.”

He exhaled in preparation. He was well-acquainted with the smell of the stuff, but all he could recall of the taste was nothing pleasant. Still—this was for Emma. As quick as he could, he brought it to his lips and drained the cup.

Incredibly, it wasn’t half bad. The burn of the alcohol was there, but it was so much better than whatever swill the crew had been drinking—this was sweet and warm and spicy.

“Good, huh?”

“Aye.”

“And you’re not breaking out in hives or anything, right?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Perfect.”

Part of him was exercising restraint from indulging in another; the other part wondered if he could even get drunk.

_ Nothing stopping you from finding out! _

Like most things, he decided to follow her lead, taking a shot whenever it was offered as they dug into their meals and continued to chat. It was casual—well, as casual as it could be, given the weight of what had already passed between them—but he couldn’t recall a more enjoyable night in ages.

“So, I want to know: how you got the hook,” she asked, toying with the appendage where it sat on the table. There was a flush in her cheeks and playful smile on her face; he had to assume the rum had something to do with that, but he liked to imagine otherwise.

“Afraid it’s a rather dull tale,” he shrugged. “We were attacked by pirates when I was on a merchant vessel. I wasn’t fighting, but somehow got caught in the middle of things and one sword or another took it off; I was never clear whose, but wouldn’t put it past one of my crew mates.”

“Seriously? That’s terrible.”

“It happens,” he offered nonchalantly; he’d certainly seen worse. “The ship doctor helped me heal and fitted me with the hook, so I’d still be useful. Once the fever from the infection finally broke, that’s when I discovered there was a new captain and crew—the very pirates who’d attacked—and they let me stay as long as I kept a low profile and contributed. So I’m sure that answers another question of yours.”

“Yeah, it does,” she affirmed. “It didn’t seem like something you’d sign up for.”

“You’d be surprised, actually. It’s…it’s better than being a slave.”

She squeezed both his hand as his hook at that, and offered a sympathetic smile. “What happened to the crew? After...everything. Did you, you know...do anything to them?”

He knew it was just morbid curiosity on her part, but hated that she knew it was a possibility. “No; I never saw them again. Didn’t want to; didn’t trust myself. I ran into Smee, the bo’sun, some years later, but he was an old man and retired at that point.”

“That must have been a shock for him.”

“Aye; he thought he’d seen a ghost,” Killian chuckled. “We had a pint—up at that very bar, actually. Didn’t talk much, given that there wasn’t much to say—he never actively antagonized me, but we weren’t exactly close friends.” He swallowed as the rest of the memory played out. “He’s the only person who ever asked me to use the magic. He wanted to be young again.”

“Did you do it?”

“No. The Darkness insisted it could, but I wasn’t confident enough to let it have any free reign like that. Thankfully, he understood when I turned him down; said he’d had a good life.” He took a pull from his ale, then continued a bit quieter, “I went to his funeral a few years later. I think he was the last person who knew me as a mortal man.”

“Wow. And I’m guessing that was a while ago?”

“Yeah; probably 80 years ago, at least.”

Emma shook her head in disbelief. “You say that so casually, like it’s nothing, when it’s longer than most people even live. What have you been doing all these years?”

“Is it the rum making you chatty or are you genuinely curious?” he teased. Perhaps the booze was having an effect on him, too—he’d never been so flirty. (Was this flirting? He honestly hardly knew.)

“Can it be both?” She winked. 

He smiled back, but then averted his gaze, picking at the remnants of his stew with his spoon. Perhaps another effect of the alcohol was a delay in his usual reactions; even if it was Emma, who he’d already revealed so much to, he still hadn’t gotten accustomed to anyone being interested in his life or what he had to say. “I can’t say I’ve been up to anything particularly interesting,” he said, trying to be gentle in what was sure to be a let-down of a tale. He summarized his years: building his home and library, keeping himself entertained with the Darkness and its constant companionship, and his regular visits to the garden. “It was the only place I could truly find solitude, even after I...when it was…less than attractive.”

“You did that, didn’t you.” She wasn’t asking, but she wasn’t accusatory, either.

“I did. Or the Darkness did; it’s still a bit fuzzy.”

Emma gave a sad sort of smirk. “I’m just realizing—that’s why your magic felt familiar: because I’d already felt it, the first time I walked in there. It wasn’t as strong, but...it was definitely yours.”

Shame rushed through him, faster than he’d ever felt it before (and he was well-acquainted with the emotion). He swallowed and let his gaze drift down again, inspecting each striation in the grain of the wooden bowl. “So my reputation did precede me, then.”

“Hey—don’t go there,” Emma told him, squeezing his hand again. “It’s in the past, and it’s moot now. Finding the garden like that...it kind of gave me a purpose again.” 

He looked up, surprised. Of all the things they had in common, he never thought a lack of direction would be one.

She explained, seeming to understand his silent question. “I was just...so angry, after everything with my parents and Maleficent and not being able to do anything about it. The fairies were being kind of scarce so I didn’t have anyone to help me, and I couldn’t go to anyone I knew near the palace because they’d see what a failure I am. We don’t even have to talk about that dumb prophecy that’s still hanging over my head.” She paused her rant to take a breath and a drink. “And then I stumbled across the garden and...it was something I could fix. So I did. And...here we are.”

Some part of Killian wondered at the cosmic improbability of the way their paths crossed and intertwined so perfectly—if it was coincidence or more than that; maybe something do with her being the Savior, even if he still didn’t know what that meant (though it must have something to do with the prophecy). But the rest of him was back to being a bit bleary, happily so, from the rum. He gave her a gentle squeeze this time. “I’m glad you found it.”

“Me too,” she smiled.

“And now that you know all of my sordid tale, and I know the rest of yours, how about you tell me something far more exciting and that no one has probably ever asked you before: what’s it like to be a princess?”

She chuckled and rolled her eyes. “Okay, Captain Sarcasm. There’s no way you want to hear that. It’s so boring.”

“Not to me, it’s not.”

She gave him a sideways glance, but he could see some level of submission in her gaze. “Okay, but I warned you: it really isn’t all that exciting.”

Emma was a terrible liar—he found everything exceedingly fascinating, from life in the castle to her lessons to the way she described her parents (having a close family like that at all, really; his heart ached in a way it hadn’t in so long at the thought of Liam). 

“Ugh, and the balls,” she complained. “It felt like we had one every other month.”

He perked up even more at that, if it was even possible for him to be more engrossed in her stories. “I thought those were supposed to be fun?” he commented; everything he’d ever read seemed to suggest they were the height of romance and diversion.

“I mean, the first twenty or so were, I guess. But after a while, they all look the same: same dresses, same dances, same people. My mother gave up on finding a suitor ages ago, after everything with that bastard,” she spat, referring to the arse that broke her heart. “I think she just likes throwing parties. Seems a bit of a waste of money to me but they somehow always seemed to come up even on them.” She sniffed a bit, though. “But I can’t wait for the next one, whenever it is.”

“It’ll happen,” he assured her.

“I know; I have to have hope that it will.”

He gave her another hopeful squeeze and they went back to their drinks for a bit, until music filled the tavern. One of the pirates had brought a fiddle and was playing a jig of some sort, and the waitresses were joining some of the men in dancing a reel. It was fairly typical of something Killian had seen on ships a lifetime ago, but given their conversation and the gentle glow of the tavern’s lanterns, there was something a bit more dreamy about it.

They watched and clapped along for the rest of the song, and then the tune changed and the dancers changed their steps to match. He was practically lost in a daze as he stared at the couples as they twirled and pranced almost in sync with one another, happy smiles on their faces and laughter bubbling from their throats. 

“Do you want to dance?” 

Killian’s head whipped towards Emma, both in shock and wonder. “Pardon?”

“Have you never been asked to dance before?”

A hazy memory of one special night with Milah filtered through his memory, but no words had been spoken then—it just happened. “No, I haven’t.”

“Well, come on. I’m not used to being turned down, especially when I actually want to dance with someone,” she commanded with a wink, then stood and held an inviting hand to him. 

He didn’t let himself think too long about taking it, the warmth of her palm reaching his even through his glove, and followed as she led him to the makeshift dance floor just as the music changed. This tune was more...he didn’t want to say refined, but it was definitely more befitting a ball than a tavern. 

She pulled him to an open spot and then stood in front of him. Carefully, she took his hand and placed it on her waist, right above where the curve of her hips gently flared out. 

“What...what are you doing?” he stammered; for some reason, he felt like a virginal young boy again, even though he was neither (but might as well be, in some ways).

Emma set her hand on his shoulder and with the other, held his hook, before pointedly explaining, “It’s called a waltz, and there’s only one rule.” She took a step into him, close enough that he could feel heat radiating off her body onto his, and murmured, “Pick a partner who knows what she’s doing.”

Any words died on his lips; no coherent thoughts formed in his brain. Nothing registered but the slight shift of weight as Emma took the first step, and he scrambled to follow. Then another. And another. Emma expertly directed their movements with the the press of her hand against him and the press of her hips into his grip; he was torn between focusing on the steps and staring at the soft expression on her face, green eyes twinkling even in the dim light.

Eventually, he figured it out and they fell into a pattern, swaying and turning to the rhythm of the music that seemed to play in time with the beat of his heart—which, quite honestly, was racing. He thought these things were supposed to be filled with romance and drama—not the intensity and intimacy that was currently present, or the heaviness of the air between them.

Too soon, the song was over and another, much livelier dance took its place. But Killian was loathe to let go of Emma and, impossibly, she seemed to feel the same, because instead of moving away, she came even closer, wrapping her free arm around his waist and setting her head on his shoulder. It was a good thing he didn’t need air, because his breath had been completely stolen.

He was almost scared to move—scared that he might frighten her away, that she wasn’t aware of what she was doing due to the rum or something—but then she started to sway on every other beat of the music, and his body was moving with hers before he had a chance to think about it.

His hook settled on the other side of her waist and he wrapped his hand around her back just a bit, keenly aware of everything about her: her scent, her warmth, how she felt pressed against him, even the subtle vibrations of her heartbeat. It was like she was the only other person in the world, the only thing that mattered—none of his other constant troubles or worries plagued him; he was completely at peace. He closed his eyes and gave into the bliss that was threatening to drown him, and he couldn’t imagine a sweeter death.

Typically, it all came crashing down a moment later. A sharp jostle pulled them both from their shared serenity, and it took a second to notice the pirate at their side, dressed in a dirty tunic and frayed pants held up with a belt that strained against his gut. He was trying to get in between Killian and Emma. “Might I ‘ave a turn with the lady?” he asked, polite in word but not in tone, or the way he was leering at Emma’s top.

“No, you may not,” was Emma’s sharp reply.

“Aw, that’s no fair; just want a quick turn is all.” He was still trying to get his dirty hands on Emma, pawing at her arm.

“I believe the lady said no,” Killian hissed. He was livid with this man; how dare he interrupt them?

_ Make him pay! _ the Darkness crowed; it wasn’t until that outburst that Killian realized it had been silent all night.

The pirate turned his attention to Killian, giving him a once over with his eyes. “Oh, you’re a pretty one, too, aren’t you? Jealous, then? I’d love a romp with you, too.”

Long-buried memories rose to the surface, spiraling out in a rage Killian hadn’t felt in ages. He grabbed the man by the shoulder and pressed him against the opposite wall, covering the distance in a matter of strides.

He pressed his forearm across the scoundrel’s chest and the tip of his hook to the neck. “You won’t lay a finger on her hair nor mine, d’you hear me?” he spat, and the man started to cower and whimper. He heard his name called from somewhere outside, but all he could focus on was this miserable excuse for a man and the fear coursing through his body. “Otherwise, I’ll see to it that you have none at all, nor your head—savvy?” The tip of his hook started to draw blood.

_ Ooh, decapitation—we haven’t done that in ages! _

“Killian, stop.” A hand was squeezing his bicep and he turned to look at whoever dared interrupt him. It was Emma, of course.

“I can’t—he wanted to hurt you!” he insisted; didn’t she see how dangerous this man was?

“Please—I can take him,” she scoffed. “Just stop; you don’t need to do this.”

_ Yes, you do! Imagine what he could have done—to her; to you _ . Killian squinted his eyes shut at the images playing in his head. 

“Killian, please.” The soft tone of her voice quickly brought him back to the ground, though he wasn’t sure if he’d been above it or under it a moment prior. Either way, it was a shock to his senses—he was ready to kill this man, without even blinking an eye.

And Emma had witnessed the whole thing.

He jumped away from the pirate as if he’d been jolted, and the man promptly slumped against the wall as he sputtered and got his breath back. The rest of the bar was eerily silent and all eyes were on him, most with a look of fear in them as he glanced around.

If Emma wore that look, too, he didn’t want—couldn’t bear—to see it. “I...I’m sorry,” he blurted out, keeping his eyes down, and then ran for the door and into the night.

_ You were so close—so close! He deserved it! _

“No, he didn’t.” Killan’s path was aimless, but he could hear the ocean and knew his feet were propelling towards it.

_ He’s probably done worse. _

“Then he’ll get what he deserves someday; not from me.” He crashed through thick brush as he plowed on, not caring about the burrs and thorns that scratched at him.

_ Think about it—think of all the wrongs you could right, if you’d just let yourself—let us— _

“No!” he screamed, finally coming into a clearing. The shore lay just ahead and the sound of the waves crashing on the sand was an instant balm, though nowhere near as much as it usually was. “I’m tired of your bloody games and torture! When will it be enough? When will you just give up on me?”

“Not any time soon.” He jumped and turned to see Emma breaking through the shrubbery he’d just ran through. 

He stumbled back, trying to stay away from her, for her sake. “You...you followed me? Why?”

Her brow furrowed in confusion as she moved closer to him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“After what I just did…”

To his shock, she rolled her eyes. “Didn’t we literally just have this conversation? I’m not scared of you; I know that’s not you.”

Her faith in him was so much stronger than his own, and it nearly broke his heart. “Aye, but the line between me and the Darkness gets weaker every day. What just happened there—it’s happened before, and it’ll happen again, and it’s just been getting more frequent. I don’t…” He hung his head and nearly sobbed. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

_ Give in, give in, give in _ , the Darkness started to chant, its chorus echoing in his head. He collapsed against the wet sand as their taunts got louder, whimpering at the splitting headache it was causing until—

Until it stopped suddenly. “Killian, are you alright?” He opened his eyes to see Emma in front of him, kneeling too and gripping his shoulders. There was fear in her expression, but not of him—for him.

He didn’t have it in him to lie. “No, I’m not.”

“What happened?”

He snorted. “When? That’s a bit of a loaded question, love.”

“Okay then,” she said quietly, then brushed a hand through his hair. “How about back at the tavern.”

“I…” he started, not quite sure how to explain. “My appearance has always garnered attention, even when I was mortal—especially then. People...wanted me.”

“I...I see. Did they…?” She clearly didn’t want to put it into words.

“No, nothing like that—but there were some close calls. And it often started like that—minding my own business, and then I was being propositioned. And the Darkness...it knows what’ll set me off; it dug up those memories and that was all it took. Sometimes, I can resist, but others…”

“I get it,” she cut in. “Is...that what was happening before I knocked on your door?”

He gulped. “How...how much of that did you hear?”

“It sounded like you were yelling, and I heard something breaking, but I didn’t see anyone else there. And then it seemed like it happened when I walked up here—you were yelling, but there’s no one else around.”

He sighed and hung his head. 

“Does it have something to do with your curse?”

“It has everything to do with that,” he confirmed. “It...talks to me,” he explained. “I know that sounds insane, but it taunts me, in my head. That’s how it tries to get me to do its bidding; admonishes my failures—things like that. I used to be good at ignoring it, but it...pushes, and it’s been doing that more as of late.”

She squeezed his shoulder. “Is that what happened last time in the garden?”

“No.” He still shuddered at the memory. “I’m still not sure what caused that; something in the book, I think. The Darkness somehow manifested and then...took over. It usually just takes advantage of my emotions—it’s always prompted. That was...a first.”

“Your eyes looked different; kind of like that one time we fought. That’s how I could tell you weren’t all there. They did that tonight, too.”

He scoffed. “That’s the thing, though—I was still there. I could see it all happening. Whatever that was in the garden was harder to break out of, but tonight...that wasn’t as blurry.”

“But Killian—”

“No; no ‘buts’, Emma.” He stood up quickly and put some distance between them, moving closer to the edge of the water. “There’s only two ways for this to end: I give in and let the Darkness run free, doing gods know what to anyone in my path; or I somehow keep this up and manage to hold it at bay for eternity. So either way...I’m not good for you.”

Emma followed him, angrily storming to his side. “Excuse you—I think I’ll decide who or what is ‘good’ for me, okay? And screw me—what about you? What do you need, Killian?”

The fire in her eyes matched her elevated pulse, thundering in his ears.  _ You’re so close _ , the Darkness whispered.  _ Listen to her heart—you could take it so easily… _

“No!” he shouted and took a step back, yelling at both of them. “You know what I want? All I’ve wanted for decades?”

“What?”

“I just want to go in the bloody ocean. Not food, not my family, not even a friend—all I wanted to make this curse bearable was to be in the water and let it soothe me. And look.” 

He turned at ran at the sea, but never did he hit the water. He should have sent salt spray up all around him and likely splashed Emma, but—to her surprise, if the way her jaw dropped was anything to go by—the water stayed away, parting around him and leaving him on dry land.

“Not even the sea can stand me, love. How can you? How can anyone?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but then firmly shut her lips.

“See?” he cried. She took a step toward him, but he held up his hand to stop her. “Don’t, love, please—just...just stay away. It’s for your own good.”

He waved his hand and translocated home, collapsing on his wood floor as soon as he did. Sobs wracked his body as he was hit with the realization that he’d just pushed away the one person who had seen him—the real him—in so, so long, but in the end, he knew it was for the best.

_ There, there, dearie _ , the Darkness crooned.  _ We’ve got you. _


	7. Love will be the death...The death of you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh, the last full chapter! I can't believe we're finally here! Enjoy!
> 
> title comes from "Tears of Pearls" by Savage Garden

Two weeks had passed since Killian sent Emma away—or at least, he thought it was that long; it was hard to judge the passage of time when the shade of light outside the window stayed the same, a never-ceasing storm raging outside his cottage. It was fitting, really, because it matched the emotional one going on inside. No matter what he did, the Darkness refused to be sated. 

The sea no longer calmed his racing heart; instead, it elicited an almost agoraphobic reaction to the wide expanse, and the waves too easily mimicked the constant whispers of his predecessors.

He managed to fix the bookcase manually, but every time he sat down to read a novel, the paper ignited in his hand from the constant sparking of magic in his palm; words of romance and fantasy burned away in his grasp.

At the slightest provocation—as simple as stubbing a toe, as terrible as setting fire to one of his favorite books—the magic spiraled out from him, breaking whatever fragile thing was in the vicinity, be it a window or a mirror, or the one time his wooden chair had fractured underneath him. But each time, he immediately mended it via magic; it was effortless at this point.

And he was tired—so, so tired—of fending off the incessant mental abuse.

_ You’re fighting a losing battle and you know it, dearie. Why are you still trying? _

“Because I’ll be damned if I give in,” he replied listlessly, staring at the ceiling from his little-used bed. He’d hoped the sound of the endless rain on the roof might be provide some relief, but it hadn’t yet.

_ Yes, indeed you will; Hades has been waiting for you for a very long time, I daresay. _

“But you won’t let me go that easily, will you?”

_ Heavens no! We’re just getting started! _

He scoffed, but it was half-hearted, and then closed his eyes and tried to focus on the pattering rain on the roof and not the infinite list of tortures and maladies the Darkness couldn’t wait to execute.

_ Murder is always a good place to start; maybe a spot of famine too? We could start collecting hearts again, definitely...and oh, it’s been so long since we had a genocide... _

The impending sense of doom hanging over him didn’t help his growing frustrations or unstable emotions; he felt like he was just awaiting his execution. Would that be what it was like? Would Killian Jones cease to exist, only the Dark One remaining? Or would it be like what happened due his last visit to the garden—would he be an unwilling passenger while the Darkness made a vehicle of his body?

_ The sooner you give up, the sooner you’ll find out! _

His resolve hadn’t waned—but his endurance was flagging.

Blessedly, Emma hadn’t tried to come to him, to change his mind. He knew this was the only way. Part of him wished she had but he knew that, in the long run, she was better off without him. He could only pray the Darkness spared her when he was no longer in control.

_ Are you kidding? Her? Oh, we have plans for her. _

He sat bolt upright, suddenly panicked. “Like what?”

_ Oh, there’s so many options! It’d be rather silly of us to let the one person who can destroy us run free. _

The first image that flashed across his mind’s eye was Emma, begging for mercy.

Then Emma, covered in blood, his dagger dripping at his side. 

Then her staring at him, wide-eyed, while a bright red heart glowed in his hand—until it was crushed and she was gone.

Over and over, it played all the ways it could think of to hurt her, each one ending in her death—and nothing he tried would stop the visions from coming. He screamed and yelled at it to end, but no respite came, even when he was sobbing and the storm outside was at its fiercest.

_ What, you don’t want us to do that?  _ it finally taunted.

“No, please—not her, don’t…” he whimpered.

The Darkness sighed. In all his years, he’d never heard it do that.  _ Well, fine; I suppose you have a point—think of what we could do with power like hers!  _

The illusion changed; now it was Emma standing over him with a blood-soaked blade, the inky tendrils claiming her for its own and washing away her light, leaving hard darkness in its place. Gone was the glow of her hair and the brightness of her eyes, only ice in its place, and the ruins of the garden behind her.

“You...you wouldn’t.”

_ Oh, yes we would. Better to control it than to let it control us. _

Control...could she do that?

_ Only if she had the blade...but you’re not  _ that  _ dumb, are you? _

He didn’t respond; he just stood and made a beeline for the main room.

_ We know what you’re thinking. _

He pulled the new rug from the floor, tossing it aside with strength he didn’t know he had.

_ It’s not going to be that easy. _

A crash of thunder boomed outside and made him jump; a bit of dark magic flew off of him and shattered the mirror.

_ Do you really want to see what will happen?  _ Visions of a world cast into darkness, people screaming and crying, the memory of Milah’s death started playing in his head again, bringing him to his knees.  _ Because we’re quite fine with that—and we know you’re not. _

“It won’t—she can fix this.”

_ Why? Because she’s the Savior? Bollocks. Nothing can stop us. The only way to stop is to be stopped. _

It felt like the weight of the entire world was bearing down on him. The gruesome images of the Darkness’s dreams wouldn’t leave him be, intermingled with its constant repetition of Emma’s name and his mother’s last words. “Keep your good heart.” It had once been a mantra; now it was just a reminder of all the ways he’d failed.

He was sure he’d crush under the pressure—was sure he could feel his bones impossibly breaking—until he mustered up his last fragment of strength and, with a primal yell, pushed it all away. 

The energy of the effort blasted out from him and took the windows with it, letting in the storm. The wind and rain whipped around the room, adding to the frenzied air and pulling at his hair and tunic. 

Looking back on the next moment, he must have been using magic unconsciously; how else could he have punched through the solid wood floor in one shot? Anyone else would have incurred serious injury in the attempt but he just pulled his bloodied hand back and tore at the splinters, vaguely aware of the continued cuts and gashes on his hand and forearm as he worked to clear a gap. 

At least this time when he pulled out the dagger box, he already had his blackened blood to offer; he wasted no time in tracing the letter on the surface. 

But it didn’t open. He tried again, and again, but nothing happened. 

_ You lovesick idiot. Did you forget Milah that easily? _

In his rush, he’d been writing  _ E _ on the box. A rare correct moment for the Darkness. Quickly, he shook his head, drew an  _ M _ , and pulled the lid off as soon as it released. 

The dagger somehow seemed darker when he held it—he swore he could see it’s black veins pulsing in time with his heart, the voices of Dark Ones past whispering even louder. The magic within him sang in its presence. 

_ Now what are you gonna do? _

Well, he should probably find Emma. He’d no sooner thought it than he found himself in the garden, the familiar smoke dissipating around him. 

“Killian?”

He whipped around at Emma’s voice, and the Darkness began to spark inside as soon as it registered her presence. She was on the other side of the garden but he could still sharply read the expression on her face: confusion, concern, and more than a little fear. 

“Emma, please, you have to help me,” he urged, running toward her. She took a step back when he did; he probably looked like a crazed man, but he was desperate. He held out the blade to her when he drew close. “Please—take it away from me. You’re the only one I trust.”

“Take it?” Her eyes darted warily between the dagger and his eyes. “Killian, what are you asking me?”

“Whoever holds the dagger can control the Dark One. Please, love; it’s yours.”

She swallowed as she stared up at him, eyes wide. “I—I can’t do that; I won’t take away your agency like that.”

_ Ugh, she’s so self-righteous. She’s clearly never held a heart in her hands...but we can change that. _

“It’s not taking if it’s being given up,” he explained, then reached for her with his hook. He brought her forearm level with his chest and placed the handle of the dagger in her hand, wrapping her fingers around it. “Please, Emma; for me?”

To his horror, she tossed it aside. “Killian—you don’t need me to; you can do this!” She was holding his hand and hook and trying to meet his gaze, but it hadn’t left the dagger, staring at where it lay cast aside in the grass.

And he was fairly sure his stomach was on the ground next to the blade.  

_ Would you look at that? She just threw you away. _

“Killian, do you hear me? You’re stronger than this!”

_ Just like your father did...and your brother...and all those captains… _

“Whatever it’s telling you isn’t true!”

_ Isn’t it, though? _

He finally broke out of his trance to glare at her. “How could you?” he screamed. “I ask your help and get tossed aside?” Dark rage was starting to build.

“What? No, Killian—that’s not—”

“I thought you’d be the one who could do this! I’m trusting you!”

“And I’m so glad you do,” she said, giving him a teary smile as she cupped his cheek. “But Killian—you don’t need me for that!”

_ Some Savior she is.  _

“Well some Savior you are!” he echoed; the glass in the lanterns shattered as his magic began to reach out in response to his frustration. “No wonder you couldn’t break your parents’ curse!”

She stepped away, visibly shocked. Deep down, he knew it was a low blow, but he was on his last tether and it was rapidly fraying. 

Emma took a deep breath. “You’re better than this.”

_ No you’re not.  _

“Am I? Really?” He took an intrusive step into her personal space; the thump of her pounding heart registered in his mind. “Does this look like it?!”

_ Show her...show her what she’s doing! _

A strong breeze swept through the garden; he was fairly certain he summoned it, and the trees creaked in response.

But then he scrunched his eyes shut as he winced in pain; no—she wasn’t doing this to him—it was—it was—it was giving him a headache, splitting him down the middle. 

“Killian, come on; fight this!” She was gripping his biceps and there was a cool, soothing sensation emanating from her. He wanted to lean into it, but her magic couldn’t quite permeate the Darkness, which was screaming in his head. 

_ She’s not going to help you! Just take her out and forget her; why bother with people who’ll leave you behind? We haven’t…we’ve been here with you all these years! _

The Darkness hadn’t left; it was sad, but true. 

“I’m here—we’re both here, you and me—you can do this!”

_ Until she tosses you away again. She left her family, her kingdom—what makes you think she won’t do the same to you? _

She had, hadn’t she? But she’d also pulled him back from the edge—unless he remembered wrong? God, everything was so fuzzy and foggy…the wind picked up and static energy filled the air as light and dark magic collided.

“Listen to your heart; you’re a good man, Killian Jones…”

_ No, listen to  _ her _ heart!  _ The Darkness was drowning her out.  _ It’s the only thing standing between you and the peace and freedom you deserve. _ Her steady heartbeat pounded even louder in his head, shaking him to his skeleton; it was all he could hear. 

_ Take it; take it; take it; take it… _ The whispered command came from all around, echoing in his head and reverberating off the garden walls.  _ She’s just gonna hurt you; take it… _

His cheeks were wet with tears and his voice was raw from yelling. It felt like every bone in his body was trying to flee the one next to it. And he could only see one way out of this agony. 

He thrust his hand forward, into Emma’s chest; a shower of sparks fell at the intrusion. She gasped as his grip found purchase on the organ, and gave a small cry as he yanked it out. 

Everything quieted then, as if the whole world was shocked: Emma’s heart, glowing a beautiful, pure red, was sitting in his hand; his fingers, with their blackened veins, curled around it. 

The stunned silence that followed suggested that no one had thought he was capable of it, least of all him; he and Emma wore similar open-mouthed expressions as they stared at it. 

What the bloody hell was he doing?

_ What you have to do. _

“You don’t have to do this, Killian.” Her voice was strained. 

_ Yes, you do.  _

He...he did, didn’t he? 

“This isn’t who you want to be.”

What other choice did he have anymore, though?

_ None whatsoever.  _

_ Do it, do it, do it, do it… _ the voices were chanting. 

_ Crush it, crush it, crush it, crush it… _

He started to squeeze. Emma crumpled to the ground almost immediately. 

_ Yesss, that’s it...oh, it’s been so long! _

He squeezed a bit harder, watching as the glow of the heart pulsed faster. Something was definitely changing in him—there was a cold feeling spreading from his spine, not at all refreshing, but not wholly unpleasant either. 

_ Just a bit more and you’ll be free! _

Free...he couldn’t even remember what that felt like. He tightened his fist around the heart even more and Emma began to whimper and gasp. From her prone form on the grass, she flipped her head up to look at him, eyes rimmed and red with tears. 

_ We’ll have everything we ever wanted!! _ Killian was vaguely aware of the scaly texture taking over his skin, but his focus remained on Emma and her heart. 

“Please,” she choked out. “Don’t give…” Her eyes were fluttering, about to close for good. He could feel the corner of his mouth pull up in a sinister grin.

_ Almost there... _

She took an arduous, strained breath, and uttered what would likely be her last words. “I can’t lose another person that I love.”

That stopped him. Love? She was on the verge of death... but was worried about his fate?

_ Don’t listen to her—she’d say anything to get you to stop! _

Anyone else would...but not her. He knelt next to her as she lay panting, finally able to catch her breath now that he’d relaxed his grip on her heart. 

_ Finish it! Finish her!  _ the Darkness was demanding. 

But he couldn’t hear it anymore when Emma reached up to caress his face. He could feel the roughness of his skin as she brushed her thumb across his cheek and found himself leaning into her warmth. 

And he suddenly knew what he really had to do. It had taken seeing Emma in pain to make him realize it, and he knew he’d likely be hurting her further, but it was the only way—the only right way. 

_ What are you waiting for? _

“This,” he answered, no longer caring if Emma saw him talking to no one. As swiftly as he’d pulled it out, he shoved Emma’s heart back in her chest. 

She gasped and coughed, but then looked up at him, concern furrowing her brow. “Killian?”

_ What do you think you're doing? _

“The courageous thing, for once.”

He took a deep breath to steel himself, then reached inside his own chest, pulling out his own heart this time. He saw Emma reach for him, but she froze before she touched him—a good thing, too, because the jolt from their feuding magic likely would have made him crush it. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt all that much—just a slight tug, and then there it was in his palm. It was encased in a hard black shell, but he could still see a bit of red glow inside; he wasn’t at all shocked it was so dark. 

_ You can’t stop this. Whatever you think your plan is, it won’t work.  _

“If that means ridding the realm of you, then I have to try.”

_ And what if you fail? _

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” But he was sure. He had no reason to be, especially with the frightened stare Emma wore, but he just...knew. 

Carefully, he set his heart in the grass, which turned black and died on contact. 

Then he reached over for the discarded dagger. 

_ No!  _ “No!” For the first time, the Darkness and Emma were in agreement. 

Emma reached for his shoulder and squeezed. “Killian, you can't do this.” Tears were slipping down her cheeks now. 

And he could feel his own brimming. “We both know there's no other way, love.”

_ You idiot! You absolute imbecile! After all we’ve done for you—keeping your sorry arse alive all these years? This is how you repay us? _

“I can’t let you do this; I—I need you, Killian. I—“

“Your family needs you, love. I’m the only one who can do this, so please—let me die a hero. That's the man I want you to remember.”

“Oh, Killian,” she sobbed, cupping his face again. “You already are.”

“I love you, Emma.” It was probably fitting how much this scene reminded him of Milah’s death. 

“I love you too.” Without warning, she fisted her free hand in his tunic and pressed her lips against his, firm and soft at the same time. He kissed her back as fervently as he could manage, though it was far less than anything she deserved. 

When she broke away for air, he could only pause a second longer in the brief afterglow of the moment. 

_ Stop! You have no idea what you’re doing—you won’t accomplish anything? Do you want to waste your life? Do you want to make her watch you die? We could do so much together! _

Gently, he pushed Emma away from him. She was still crying, but gave him an encouraging smile nonetheless. He redirected his attention to he heart and adjusted his grip on the dagger.

_ You idiot...you lonely, miserable fool. You’re going to die as you lived: a one-handed coward.  _

The last insult was the final straw. He reared back and drove the point of the blade into his heart, splitting it in two. 

Pain greater than anything he’d ever known—worse than any strike or lash, worse even than losing his hand—started burning a hole in him, starting from his chest and quickly bleeding out. Oddly, he wasn’t losing any blood, but those same inky black tendrils that had consumed him all those years ago were leaking out of him at a furious pace. 

He wasn’t quite sure when or how he ended up on his back, but at some point, he realized he was staring up at the Darkness set loose as it escaped from its binding and left him behind, no more than a used, broken vessel. 

And yet—he’d never felt more free or at peace in his life, because it had been his decision and no one else’s. He knew what would happen and he’d still done it. 

The last of the Darkness broke away from him and he dropped back from whatever contortion he’d been in, feeling so much lighter than he could ever recall. Everything was growing dark and his vision narrowed; he must be approaching the end. 

And all he could do was smile. 

He turned his head to find Emma; she was kneeling in the grass next to his body, his broken heart held in her hands and tears streaming down her face. Amazingly, there was no black on his heart anymore—just that same pure red glow Emma had. He wanted to ponder its meaning, but more so wished he could comfort her—but there was time for neither, and he knew that eventually, she’d be fine without him. 

The last thing he saw before falling into oblivion was the bright green of Emma’s eyes, and then everything, including his heart, faded to emptiness. 

* * *

_ Oh, sweet rapture! _ The Darkness was finally free—free of that bumbling burden it had carried for far too many decades; truly free for the first time in its centuries of existence. No silly human emotions to weigh it down anymore; it could do as it pleased!

It had no idea what to do with such a lack of restraint now that it was out of its cage. It wanted to touch everything and everyone, leaving chaos and destruction in its wake. But where to start?

The garden would make a perfect first victim, it supposed—what a better place to sew despair than in what was once a symbol of hope? Unbound, it flew around the space, its tentacles of darkness killing all it touched: vines shriveled, trees shed their leaves and turned black, and one by one, flowers turned gray and their petals fell to ash in the wind.

Imagine what it could do beyond that? The world would fall to darkness, unable to stop it.

Though, one disadvantage to being uncorporeal was quickly revealed when it attempted—and failed—to pick up the now-nameless dagger: there was some perk to having fingers.

_ The girl _ ...oh, yes, Princess Emma—how could they forget? Such raw, untapped power! It had noticed her own rage and anger...if it could sway her to see things a little differently...oh, there was much fun to be had!

It concentrated its efforts on surrounding her; in her unsteady emotional state, she’d be especially vulnerable—and desperate souls were its favorite. 

She flinched when it began to circle her.  _ There, there, dearie; no need to cry over spilled blood _ . 

Her eyes grew wide at its voice and she stood, her stare darting around at the cyclone of malevolence that was closing in on her. 

_ We can dry those tears, if you’d like. And make sure you never shed another.  _

“Seriously? You expect me to believe that?”

_ Whyever not? You hardly know me, love.  _

She breathed in deep at the use of the deckhand’s endearment; just as planned. “Leave me alone; I don’t need you.”

_ That’s not what you said a few minutes ago. _ The Darkness echoed her voice from earlier, when she’d told Killian as much; her face crumpled at the sound, to its glee.  _ And you’d be no closer to breaking your parents curse without those books...but maybe we could help make sure you do. _

“Never!” she screamed defiantly. “I won’t resort to dark magic to save them; they wouldn’t want me to.”

_ Even after what they did to the dragon’s child? _ (Even the Darkness knew to stay away when children were involved; it had some standards, after all.)

She clenched her jaw and glared, having no response.

_ To think: what happened to that poor thing would all be in vain, because you couldn’t manage to live up to your destiny. _

Truthfully, the Darkness was bluffing a bit at this point. As much as Jones had gone mad in its company, it was mostly because the Darkness was equally listless and cut off from the world. It used to be at the forefront of all magical goings-on, so whatever this prophecy was surrounding the girl, it had no idea. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t try to use it to its advantage.

Although...the look of recognition on her face did lead it to worry—she looked like she’d just gotten an idea, and not one that the Darkness would be fond of.

“No, I think that’s exactly what I’m gonna do,” she spat. “I was given all this light magic for a reason; and if I can’t use it to save them, or Killian, then I can at least use it to destroy you.”

_ I’d like to see you try. _

A look of grim, fierce determination took over her face as she closed her eyes and concentrated, holding her arms in front of her, palms up. Oh, she looked like such an amateur.

White sparks began to jump from her palms and the air began to shift a bit. And when the sparks hit the Darkness’s oozing spirals, something strange happened: it hurt.

_ What—what is this? What are you doing? _

It certainly wasn’t the first time the Darkness had squared off against a light magic user, but it was only the vessel that got hurt, not the entity itself. This was new. And not enjoyable in the slightest.

It spun closer to Emma, seeking to drown out her powers, but it was no use: white lightning began to fly from her hands unrestrained, slicing through the column of the Darkness that surrounded her.

Well that wasn’t exactly the way it expected this to play out. All attempts to double down on the girl were failures as it was cut apart by her pure magic, until the pain became too much, like fire consuming its many limbs all at once.

Quickly, the darkest magic ever known to man was crumbling into absolutely nothing, its charred remains disintegrating where they landed and leaving behind no trace of one of the strongest forces on earth.

It managed to scream one last thing before evaporating into the ether.

_ No more Darkness... _

* * *

Holy shit. Holy SHIT. She just...she just destroyed the Darkness, didn’t she?

Holy shit.

Somewhere, her mother was tutting at her repeated cursing, but Emma didn’t have the wherewithal to come up with anything more refined or creative. In the span of minutes, she just watched the man she loved die to avoid being consumed by the darkest thing ever, and then she obliterated said thing.

Yeah, she’d been prophesied to do that, and she’d worried it would come to something like this as soon as she met Killian. That was why she tried to keep him at bay at first, not trusting him—and even less trusting of her initial attraction. So much for that.

But that didn’t take away from the adrenaline coursing through her veins next to the surge of magic that wouldn’t abate. She let out a long exhale and tried to shake the sparks out, but they just dripped from her fingers and onto the charred grass below her. The garden was mostly destroyed from all that had happened, but it was a small price to pay for what she’d just accomplished.

No, there was a different price that had been too large—that shouldn’t have been part of the exchange. She knelt back down—well, more like collapsed—next to Killian’s cooling body.

It was odd, seeing him like this. Gone was the shimmery pallor of his skin; she assumed this was how he looked before he acquired the curse: tanned by the sun from long days at sea. But stranger still was that he looked so peaceful—she’d never seen him so relaxed, without the constant weight of his burdens and self-doubt resting on his lean frame. And she hated that it was death that had finally given him that respite.

A drop of water fell onto his linen shirt and was quickly absorbed by the fabric. Then another. After a few, she realized they were her tears, coming back in full force. She’d lost so much in such a short time; why did he have to be part of that?

For a long, long moment, she just let herself cry—for him, for her parents, for her kingdom—as she lay across his chest, holding him close like she only got to once in life.

But then something in the grass caught her eye—something glowing. Killian’s heart. What?

She immediately sat back up and grabbed the broken halves of his heart. As soon as he stabbed it, the hard black shell had immediately dissolved, leaving behind his pure, bright red organ—and she could have sworn she saw the light fade from it completely. But no, there it was: faint, deep in the center of each half, but there was still a flickering, pulsing sign of life.

Another tear fell from her cheek onto the dull surface of his heart from where she’d set them in the grass when the Darkness started encircling her, which seemed to absorb it—and the light got a little brighter. Her heart leapt for a moment, and a spark of her magic burst free from her palm, landing on the other half—which had the same effect. She gasped; did that mean...could she…?

Focusing everything on Killian and not on her own misery, she called on that extra magic running through her, bringing it into her hands with the two halves of his heart. Her tears were still falling on it, creating a sort of magical glue, she figured, as she pressed them back together and used her magic to seal it. The bright light from her palms blinded her for a second, but when it faded, his whole, healed heart was in her grasp, glowing a bright, bold red, and the extra pressure from her excess magic was gone.

She wasted no time in pressing the organ back into his chest, trying to make sure she did it the same way he’d removed his (and, well, hers, but she wasn’t dwelling on that—it wasn’t him who had done that). And then she waited.

And waited.

And waited, staring at his chest, watching for the rise and fall of his breath that should have accompanied the return of his heart. But there was nothing.

She pressed fingers to his neck, right over the little line of freckles she’d just noticed. There was a pulse, but he still wasn’t breathing. Why wasn’t it working?

Immaturely, she shook him, though mostly out of frustration. “Killian, please—can you hear me? Are you there?” His head lolled to the side, but there was no other reaction. “Son of a bitch,” she cursed.

There was only one other thing she could try. She didn’t have much success with it, and it was probably a longshot—but given what their goodbye consisted of, she had to give it a go.

“Killian, I love you,” she whispered, hovering over his face. “Come back to me.” And then she pressed her lips to his, praying that her love was enough to wake him.

* * *

Killian wasn’t sure how long he spent there in the comfortable nothingness. There was no light, no sound, no feeling—it was as if he was laying on the bottom of a deep, dark pit, while at the same time floating in a void. Was this the afterlife, he wondered, or merely where the souls of Dark Ones past ended up? Perhaps he’d landed in some sort of purgatory. But he was nothing if not patient, and could wait to find out.

He briefly pondered the fates of those who’d passed before him—his mother, his brother, Milah. Had they traveled through this space, too, or did they head straight for greener pastures?

Wherever they, or he, went, one thing was for certain: Emma wasn’t yet there. He’d so loathed to leave her behind, but she was strong, possibly the strongest person he’d ever known; she’d move on past his sorry self, regardless of the fact that she loved him. At least he’d had that before leaving the mortal plane.

Slowly, a warm feeling took over him, like being washed in sunlight—though it was still dark. He took a deep breath, unnecessary as it was, as he readied for whatever came next. Oddly enough, he thought he felt his heart beating again; perhaps that was just a trick of the afterlife?

For a few long moments, it was just he and the gentle  _ thump-thump _ in his chest there in the abyss. But then he saw a light, quickly getting brighter until it was nearly blinding. 

And he could have swore he heard Emma’s voice.

Suddenly, pain crashed back into him—like lightning striking through his limbs and pressing down on his body, violently reigniting a fire that had burned out. He was gasping for breath, sputtering and coughing—until he felt a familiar gentle touch, and it was all immediately soothed.

“Killian?”

He blinked a few times before his eyes truly adjusted to the light—not as glaring as whatever he just experienced, but still more than the previous emptiness. And the first thing he saw was Emma, hovering over him, a smile taking over her face.

“Emma?” His voice was unsteady.

“It worked,” she whispered. “Holy shit, it worked!”

“What...what happened?” He was dead, right? Did that mean she was...oh, no… “Emma, are you—”

“I’m right here,” she said, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. She felt warm enough, but a tear was falling down her cheek. Beyond her, he saw the garden—but it wasn’t at all how he remembered; it looked much like it did after his very first visit: dead, dried up, dark.

“Where are we?” he asked shakily, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

“We’re still in the garden,” she explained calmly, albeit a bit watery. “You...you were gone and then the Darkness was free, but I—I beat it, or destroyed it, or something, and then—your heart! Oh, your heart—I fixed it, and, and then…” She was rambling and crying and grinning and he only caught half of what she was partially explaining, but the last part sounded loud and clear: “True Love’s Kiss,” she said, reverently.

He was aware of his mouth hanging agape as he stared up at his angel, his actual savior. “I...I’m alive?”

“Yeah,” she nodded.

“And we’re…” He hardly dared to put it into words.

“Mhmm.”

He exhaled and stared up at the sky, where the sun was beginning its descent and leaving a deep blue behind. So he hadn’t seen his last sunset yet, or the stars, or the sea; he had a second chance. It was almost impossible to believe, but as he took another deep breath, and another, it sunk in.

The Darkness hadn’t won. Emma had. Love had. 

“Nothing else to say?” Emma quipped nervously, then sniffled. Oh, gods, he’d been silent ever since the revelation—what poor form!

Quickly, he sat up—but immediately swayed in his spot at the rush of blood; he’d have to get used to that, and so many other mortal complaints, again. Emma gripped his shoulders and anchored him as he waited for the sensation to abate, too slowly, in his opinion.

But once the light-headedness passed, he gripped her hand and met her tear-filled eyes. “I...I have no idea what to say to that, love,” he stammered. “It’s nothing I ever imagined hearing, and more than I ever dared to consider or hope for. I’m...I’m speechless.”

“In a good way, right?”

He chuckled, but it came out almost like a sob. “In the best way anyone can imagine. It—you—is more than I could possibly deserve.”

“Hey—enough of that,” Emma said softly, cupping his cheek with her free hand; it felt so, so warm, and he realized all he’d been missing out on. “For starters, that was never true, and it’s even less true now. You deserve peace and happiness, Killian; you always have. And this?” She continued, placing her other hand over his heart, “is the brightest red I’ve ever seen. Not that I have many hearts to compare it to, but just so you know. I love you—I did then and I do now; so much now. So please stop beating yourself up, because today? You were the strongest person I’ve ever seen.”

Tears were free-falling down his cheeks now. “I love you, too, darling. More than I thought I could. Thank you for saving this sorry lost soul.”

Before they could continue down a spiral of platitudes, Emma pulled him close to kiss him, this time in celebration. It wasn’t a particularly long or deep kiss—his return to mortality did inhibit that a bit—but it was sweet and gentle and carried the promise of so much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> epilogue to come! Thanks for reading!


	8. Epilogue—The past is gone, but you can still be free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, here it is—the end! Thank you all for going on this little adventure with me!
> 
> title comes from "You Can Still Be Free" by Savage Garden

After they broke the kiss, they stayed close, unwilling to be parted by anything again, even if it was just a few inches of breathing room. There were still things to address, they knew—Emma’s parents, the garden, and just what the hell Killian was supposed to do with his days now—but the longer and tighter they held to each other, the later that could be dealt with. They’d had a long day, even if the most eventful part of it was measured in minutes, and rest was calling.

It wasn’t to be, though, and the gentle clearing of a voice made them both jump in their skin and hold each other just a little tighter.

Emma relaxed when she saw their visitors, though, and Killian quickly figured out why: it was the fairies. Many of them, all in monochromatic outfits that matched their wings and complexions. He recognized Tinkerbell quickly, standing to one side of who he assumed was the leader, a woman dressed all in blue with brunette curls piled high on her head.

“Congratulations,” the blue-tinted fairy said, grinning. “You did it. The prophecy has been fulfilled.”

“Uh, thanks,” Emma said, blushing fiercely; it was all kinds of adorable. “You couldn’t have given me more specifics, though?”

“No,” the fairy simply replied.

Emma had never mentioned much about the prophecy, other than complaining about it—so how had it been met? “What was the prophecy, love?”

She swallowed. “It...I...I was destined to destroy the Darkness.”

Intuition allowed him to fill in the blanks there. That explained a lot about her early behavior towards him, though he was still astonished that they were here if she’d known all along they might one day come to blows. “You knew from the beginning?”

She just nodded.

Were the Darkness still attached to him, he’d probably feel somewhat betrayed—or be told to feel that way; but now, all he knew was pride. “You’re brilliant, love,” he told her, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Absolutely amazing.”

“Actually,” another fairy chimed in, this one dressed in shades of red-orange, with tanned skin and dark hair in plaits. “It wasn’t just Emma, though she is the Savior—it was both of you. She couldn’t destroy the Darkness while it was tied to a soul; it needed to be freed first.”

“What?” he and Emma said at the same time, then exchanged a confused look.

“That part was all you, Killian,” Tink explained, smiling. “What you did? That only worked because you had outright rejected its power at the point of no return. Emma couldn’t have done anything without what you did first,” she explained.

He was stunned; he’d actually done some good? Even in his weakest moment, he’d been helping rid the world of the Darkness? That seemed incomprehensible; that was a role for someone else, for a—

“I told you.” Emma interrupted his train of thought. “You’re a hero, Killian Jones.”

“Huh,” was all he could manage to say. 

Emma squeezed his bicep and looked like she was about to say something, but the blue fairy cut her off. “And Emma? You might want to go check on your parents.”

“What? Why? Did something happen?” Her comforting grip turned into a panicked one; it was his turn to give support, holding tight to her waist.

“It did,” the fairy said, smiling. “But don’t worry—only good things!”

He was growing slightly annoyed with this fairy’s way of delivering good news, but that wasn’t what was important now. “Emma, you need to go to them.”

“But, Killian—”

“No, no buts. They’re your parents; they must be worried sick. Go.”

“Are you sure? I just—we just—”

“We have all the time in the world, love,” he assured her, brushing a loose tendril of hair away. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, not now.”

She chewed on her bottom lip a bit before telling him, “I’ll be back as fast as I can; I promise.”

“Take your time, darling.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He’d never tire of hearing or saying that.

She gave him a quick peck and then was up, running from the garden, the majority of the fairies following after her. He waited for Emma to run through the door before letting out a long exhale and slumping in his seat, then running his hand down his face. That had been...more than he knew how to handle, and he needed a bit of time to process all that had just been revealed. Knowing was one thing—accepting was a whole other. And he’d always been slow in that regard; resurrection couldn’t change it. 

He? A hero? He had a lifetime of proof against that—two or three, really. Even if that was what it had taken to be in the right place at the right time to finally rid the world of that curse, the things he’d done still haunted him. 

“Stop it.” Tink was standing over him, arms crossed looking down at him, with as stern a look the fairy could muster. “I can tell what you’re doing. Don’t.”

“Easier said than done, Lady Bell,” he sighed. 

“I know. And Emma does, too. Do you remember what I said last time?”

He searched his memory. “‘Don’t let the past dictate the future,’” he quoted.

“Exactly. That’s especially true now.”

Logically, he knew that was the case; but when he looked around at the devastation in the garden, it was still a bit hard to believe. Although something on one wall caught his eye: miraculously, the middlemist was still intact. It was certainly a testament to the strength of Emma’s magic, but if it made it through, then maybe he would, too. He just needed a moment to let it sink in, and he couldn’t do that here.

“I know; there’s just...one thing I need to do,” he answered, standing up. “Will you let Emma know that I won’t be long?”

“Of course; take your time. Just not too much of it—yours isn’t unlimited anymore,” she winked.

“I know,” he answered, smiling; who knew that there’d be peace in losing immortality? “I don’t plan to dally. I just don’t want her to think I’ve run.”

“If I know anything about Emma, it’s that she’s freaking out just as much as you right now.” His brow furrowed at the way she described it, but he had to admit—he did feel slightly manic, as well as elated, depressed, ashamed, enamored, and tired, so tired. “Go. I’ll let her know.”

“Thank you, love,” he effused, then didn’t waste a moment in heading off. He took one last look at the garden from the door, noting that Tink had already left, and trying to pull a bit more encouragement from the pink blossoms standing in stark contrast to the black and gray all around them.

Killian needed to see one last thing before he could accept that the decades-long nightmare was over, and he moved with as much haste as he could muster.

* * *

“Thought I might find you here.”

A few hours had passed since Killian left the garden, and yet he still hadn’t done what he’d intended. The sun was starting to set, but he hadn’t moved from where he’d collapsed of fatigue on arrival. Emma sat down next to him, no hint of judgment in her voice.

“How did you find me?” he asked quietly.

“Well, thankfully, this didn’t work,” she said, pulling out the nameless dagger. “So if you needed anymore confirmation, there’s that.” She dropped the blade in the sand in front of them. “And then I just...knew. As contrived as it sounds, I followed my heart.”

He smiled softly at the idea; he, too, had sensed her approach before he heard it, so her greeting hadn’t startled him. “Your parents?”

“Awake,” she said, relieved. “And, true to form, my mother is already planning the celebration ball.”

He chuckled. “I’d say a curse breaking warrants one.”

“Oh, but I didn’t tell you the best part: you’re the guest of honor.”

He sat straight up. “Beg your pardon? Why me?”

“Because,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “Apparently, Maleficent tweaked the curse so it could only be broken by a True Love’s Kiss of the romantic variety.”

His jaw dropped; it was starting to ache from how much that had happened today. “Well,” he finally stammered. “I think most of the credit there goes to you, given that I had little to do with that action.”

Emma tilted her head to give him a side-eyed glance. “One of these days, you’re gonna learn to accept a compliment. The kiss wouldn’t have worked if you didn’t feel the same way. That, and my mom kind of started hyperventilating when I told her. She’s a sucker for a good love story.”

Quietly, he asked, “Is that what we have?”

“I’d say so. How many people can say the strength of their love defeated the darkest magic in the realm and then brought a bunch of people back to the land of the living?”

He shifted in his seat nervously. “I’m...I’m sorry you had to face that on your own; that I made you—”

“Hush,” she interrupted. “I wasn’t.” He furrowed his brow in confusion—he was definitely not conscious for that—but she went on. “My magic has never been as strong as it was today. But all I could think about was you—how long you fought and your sacrifice; I wasn’t going to let it be in vain. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I…” He was nearly speechless. “Um...you’re welcome?” he tried; this confidence thing was uncomfortable. 

Thankfully, she laughed. “Thank you,” she told him, then placed a kiss on his cheek. “Now was that so hard?”

“Yes.”

She just giggled again, and then rested her head on his shoulder as they stared at the ocean in front of them. “How do you feel?”

“Honestly? I don’t know.” He’d thought being by the sea would help, and relaxing as the crashing waves were, his emotions were still a jumbled mess. “I’m still getting used to my thoughts being my own, with no intrusive personality adding their comments and insults. And I’m still not sure it’s real—that this isn’t some drawn-out fantasy the Darkness is putting me through, only to drag me back under further in the end. I…” His voice cracked. “I've been staring at the water for hours now, wishing to go in but terrified that it still won’t let me.” 

“Then let’s do it together.” She didn’t wait for his answer and stood immediately, pulling him up, and he was quick to follow as she led him to the edge of the water. “Oh! I almost forgot.” With a wave of her hand, she summoned the dagger from where it had been left behind. “Would you like to do the honors?”

He was more than a little terrified to hold that cursed blade again, but he also needed to know for sure. Gingerly, he took it by the handle, then turned it over to inspect each side. 

It was...nothing. It bore no name, and no voices rang in his head when he touched it. It was just a dagger now. But one that he never wished to see again. 

With a cathartic grunting yell, he swung back and threw the dagger at the ocean with all his might, then watched as it sailed through the air and fell into the water with an inconsequential splash. Farewell and good riddance, he thought.

He stared at the waves lapping at his feet then, soaking his boots and leaving salty spray on his leather pants. Emma squeezed his hand encouragingly, and he took a step forward, into the shallows. Then another, and another, with her right behind him. 

They kept going until the water rose to his thighs. It was cold and nearly impossible to wade through in his clothing, but bloody hell—he was in the ocean! Finally! He dragged his fingers through the gentle waves moving across the surface and grinned at the water’s resistance. He half expected a large wave to cast him out, but none came—just small ones welcoming him in. 

A splash hit him in the face; he looked up to see Emma smirking playfully and about to send another his way. Two could play at that game, though, and he beat her to the punch. 

She fought back, of course, so he retaliated, and it went back and forth until they were both soaked to the bone, shivering, and holding the other tight for warmth. 

He could taste salt on his lips, he assumed from their water fight, but then Emma said “Oh, Killian,” and wiped a warm tear from his face. And a few more. “I’ve got you,” she whispered, hugging him tight, as all the emotions finally poured out of him in wracking sobs. It was the release he needed, and he felt lighter with every tear drop shed.

He wasn’t sure how long they stood there, but the sun was nearly set by the time he calmed down. Emma was shivering, but she hadn’t loosened her grip on him in the slightest. “Better?” She asked. 

“Aye,” he choked out. “It’s...it’s finally over.”

“It is,” she confirmed, brushing his salty hair from his eyes, then rising on her toes to find his lips with hers. Despite the cold—which he was feeling more than ever—her affection heated him inside, and he pulled her impossibly tighter to try to do the same for her. Feeling a bit more thawed, they broke the kiss but stayed close and Emma went on. “But there’s one more thing we have to do.”

“What’s that?” He could think of so many more than just one thing to do; for the first time ever, he was looking ahead more than a day, and he wanted to do all of it—everything—with her. (Especially if it involved more kissing; he quite liked that.)

“Help me restore the garden?”

He grinned. “With pleasure.”

The familiar sensation of translocation took hold, but it was so much warmer and gentler than he’d ever experienced. In the growing shadows of evening, the garden looked even more ghostly than earlier, but Emma believed it could be healed, so he did, too. If she could bring him back to life, then this would be nothing. 

She was looking around with a pensive look on her face. “How can I help, love?” he offered, coming back to her side. 

She looked up at him and smiled. “Just hold my hand.”

“As you wish.” He took her delicate hand in his rough one and held tight. She closed her eyes in concentration, and a moment later, he swore, she was glowing. 

Her other hand was held open, and a fountain of those beautiful baubles of light of hers came rushing out, flooding the garden with the warm glow of her magic. Wherever they floated, green followed—the grass, the leaves, the stems of all the plants flourished and grew as they were healed. The benches were repaired, the fountain gurgled again, and the lanterns brought back their soft illumination. 

Last was the flowers: the blossoms sprouted slowly, the small ones on the trees first, then the vines and bulb flowers, and finally the rainbow of roses around the perimeter. 

Emma sagged against him when she was done, thoroughly spent, and he gently guided her to the plush lawn. “You’re bloody brilliant, my love; absolutely incredible,” he gushed, placing a kiss on her temple as he noted everything about the renewed space. He was fading fast, too, but the beauty all around was overwhelming. 

“I know,” she said casually. “But only because you are, too.”

He didn’t dare refute her again. “I love you, Emma.”

“I love you, too, Killian. Now, are you ready for what comes next?”

“And what’s that?”

“Whatever we want.”

“Sounds perfect.”

He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her into his lap and finding her lips in a passionate kiss. It was languid and unhurried, careful and deep—everything he’d been longing to give her, but there was no urgency behind it like their first, no reason for haste. For though his days were no longer unlimited, he knew that he had all of his remaining ones to show Emma just how much she meant to him. 

For the first time in his long, long life, he had no title or binding: not slave, not deckhand, not pirate nor Dark One. Finally, he was free of the savage garden of his past and ready to see what lay ahead for Killian Jones—his own man. 

They inevitably had to break apart for air, and exhaustion quickly claimed them. Killian actually slept for the first time in so long, dreaming happy dreams of what the future might hold. The ball lay ahead for certain, and Maleficent was likely still out there; but beyond that, he couldn’t wait to start the next adventure—although, if it was tamer than the last, he’d be the last person to complain.

He woke up the next morning more refreshed than he’d ever been, ready to make those dreams real. And he woke up in the way he hoped he would for the rest of his days: with Emma at his side. 


End file.
